


Gazing Into The Abyss

by DJ_Greg



Series: Who Can Love You Like Me? [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss, Dean Being an Asshole, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, First Kiss, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Horror, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sam is still a troll, Sappy Dean, Season 8, Self-Harm, Stockholm Syndrome, Sweet Castiel, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 07:05:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 49,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11053827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DJ_Greg/pseuds/DJ_Greg
Summary: It's been two weeks since Dean chose to be with Cas. Between entering a healthy (if a bit awkward) relationship and acquiring a new place to stay in form of Men of Letter's bunker, everything seems to be going well for Dean.That is, except for the recurring nightmares about his stay in Hell that recently were bothering him more than usual. And that overwhelming suspicion that someone - or something - is stalking him through the hallways of the bunker...





	1. The First Cut

**Author's Note:**

> Few, writing this first chapter took a long longer than I anticipated, but part of the problem was the writing block I encountered. Hopefully, the rest of the story will came out at faster pace. As you can judge by the tags, it's going to be a lot darker and more serious fic than "There's Something About Dean".
> 
> Enjoy!

_Schlik, schlik, schlik._

He hung head down, his eyes closed, as the sound of metal sliding against another piece of metal was coming from just few steps away. It made a small prickle of panic stern inside his heart. Why was his tormentor even bothering to sharpen to newest tool? No weapon ever went dull down here.

A choir of screams resounded from a greater distance, working as a background for his torture.

However, there was another sound reaching his ears, a barely audible wheezing. Some still functioning part of his brain realized it was his own breathing as he struggled to inhale through his throat, swollen and dry from the endless screaming. He didn’t think he had any strength left to use his voice anymore.

_Schlik, schlik, schlik._

He could feel a dried blood covering his face. When he cracked his eyes open, he noticed that the red liquid was also covering the ground bellow and inside it were scattered small chunks of meat, skin and organs. He desperately tried to not think about where they came from, but the constant burning in his abdomen and chest worked as a reminded.

Then the sound of sharpening stopped and a pair of legs appeared in his vision. He jerked on reflex, earning himself an agonizing pain in his ankles and wrists.

“You’d think you knew better than that by now.”

When he tried to speak, his voice was barely audible,

“no…”

“You have such a beautiful voice. Let me hear it.”

“please… don’t…”

A cold edge of knife rested on his burning flesh.

“Sing for me, Pet.”

As the knife started cutting into him, he screamed and screamed and screamed…

 

***

 

“DEAN!”

His eyes flew open and he saw Sam leaning over him, wearing a worried look.

“Dean, you've had another nightmare.”

Something was digging painfully into Dean's bare chest, preventing him from breathing freely. He reached down, expecting to feel a cold metal sticking out of a bleeding wound, but instead found the sheets he managed to entangle himself with in his restless sleep. Dean flailed around and kicked, trying to free himself and causing Sam to move at safe distance. When he finally laid comfortably on the pillow, he looked around.

It took him a couple of second to recognize this place: they were in his room in the bunker. Alone and safe. Nothing dangerous could sneak inside. Not even _him_.

After rubbing his face with both palms to chase away the horrific images from his dream, Dean finally turned toward Sam who waited patiently by the door.

“You're just going to stand there and stare?” Dean sneered. His throat was sore, most likely from prolonged screaming. “I know I'm quite a view, but let me at least brush my teeth before you start making moves.” Sam remained unimpressed. “What hours is it, anyway?”

“Eight o'clock.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Up so early?”

“Your screams woke me up.”

“Well, I'm awake now, so you can go back to your beauty sleep.”

Sam kept watching his brother for a little longer, but thankfully didn't say another word. Clearly, the arguments that arose in the past have taught him to not push the subject, so with a sigh he turned around and left, slamming the door behind him. The patter of his footsteps started moving away, getting quieter and quieter, until it was completely lost in the buzzing of light in the hallway and sounds coming from the pipes running under the walls.

Once he was alone, Dean rested his head on the pillow and closed his eyes, but it turned out to be a mistake. Immediately his mind was filled with memories of pain, blood and scent of sulfur. And that nasal voice tenderly whispering praises into his ear.

“ _You have such beautiful voice. Every scream is like a symphony dedicated just to me. I want to listen to it every minute, every hour, every day, for the rest of my life._

_Sing for me, Pet”._

Fuck.

Dean opened his eyes and locked them firmly on the ceiling. Fuck it to the eternity.

Lately the dreams about his stay in Hell intensified for some reason. When he was resurrected for the first time six years ago, he couldn't even shut his eyes for a moment without being forced to relive those terrifying memories, but over time they faded away and he reached the point when several weeks would pass between each nightmare. His record was three weeks.

Lately, however, the bad dreams returned with a vengeance, haunting him almost every night. Dean had no idea what was the cause, but frankly, he was getting sick of this shit. He developed a new routine when he'd wake up each morning to Sam's worried expression, ignore or shut any attempt at conversation until his brother left in resignation and then feel like an asshole for the rest of the day for treating Sam that way. But fuck it, he _wasn't_ a little bitch who needed a shoulder to cry on, he was capable of dealing with his problems _alone_. If Sam wanted to play a mother hen, then it was his problem for getting screamed at. Dean knew that the nightmares will fade over time like they did before, he just needed to clench his teeth and put up with it for a bit. Seriously, nothing to fuss about, Sam.

Probably it was the stay in the Purgatory that caused his nightmares to increase again. Sure, Dean was fine in the Purgatory itself and for a couple of weeks after he escaped, but it might've been a delayed reaction or some other buzzword that psychologists liked to throw around. After all, it was the only major traumatic experience that Dean went through recently, everything else was pretty much within standards.

Yes, two weeks ago things changed quiet a bit, but _not_ for worse.

Dean looked at the nightstand where his cell phone was resting. Should he check out for any new massaged…? No, fussing over someone was _Sam’s_ modus operandi. No need to follow his example. There was absolutely no reason to obsess over Cas’s safety as he lived for billions of years by now and knew how to take care of himself. Besides, he always limited himself to simple ‘ _I’m alive. Please, don’t worry_ ’ or ‘ _I’m on a routine mission. There’s no live-threatening risks ahead of me today_ ’, so Dean isn’t going to miss any vital information if he leaves it for later.

Still, it was nice to have daily updates from Cas. Especially now, when they decided to became a… a couple.

Jesus Christ, merely thinking this word made Dean cringe. What the fuck came over him two weeks ago?! Oh, Sam gave him _one_ touchy-feely speech and suddenly he was all ready to hook up with a man. Seriously, _what the fuck_?!

Okay, calm down. What happened, happened and nothing will take that back. He was stuck having a ( _son of a bitch!_ ) boyfriend and he had to deal with it like a man.

First of all, it’s time to get up.

After stretching himself properly and enjoying the feeling of his joints snapping into their proper position, Dean threw the sheets away and sit on the edge of the bed. Instinctively he reached for the cell phone and found out there was no new messages. With delay he realized what he just did, but then decided it _didn’t_ count for him being obsessed over Cas’s safety, because he _always_ checked his phone in the morning. _See_ , he’s not smothering anyone like Sam.

Dean put on a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, before stepping outside. While the bunker had its own heating that worked non-stop during autumn and winter, it hardly provided much warmth. Dean wasn’t sure if the problem lied in decades old machinery – although it was unlikely, considering how well everything else worked – or too much open space. Each hallway opened to a large room, thus making it impossible for the heat to garner in place. For all their snickering about how much better they were then the hunters, Men of Letters sure didn’t know basic stuff on the subjects of constructing. Or maybe they were just _to good_ to learn them.

While it was nice to have a place to stay and base to regroup, Dean didn’t care much for the bunker. As he kept walking toward the kitchen, his footsteps echoed in the empty space, making it sound from time to time like someone was following him. He wasn’t a coward, so it pissed him off that he felt uneasy when he ventured around this place on his own. Goddamned it, he’s a hunter who faced many vicious monster and yet he was getting scared by his own footsteps. _Pathetic_.

When Dean got closer to the kitchen, all those _terrifying_ noises that turned him into a scared toddler were drowned by the sounds of Sam preparing breakfast: spatula scratching against the pan and coffee machine working. A smell of fried eggs and ham reached Dean's nostrils, making him realize just how hungry he was.

“Morning” Dean greeted as he walked inside.

Sam stopped stirring the food and looked at him. “Hey” he responded, still visibly dissatisfied that Dean refused to cry on his shoulder. Whatever.

Ignoring his brother's anger, Dean put the cell phone on the counter next to what seemed like a bunch of articles printed from the Internet and poured himself a fresh coffee.

“I found a new case” Sam announced and pointed at the papers, before returning to the scrambled eggs. “A couple of people were found dead in Los Alamos, New Mexico over the period of ten days. Each victim had a wolf-like claw marks and missing heart, but all other internal organs were intact.”

“Werewolf?” Dean suggested. He flicked through the printed pages and then settled them back on the counter, figuring that he'll read them after the breakfast.

“Unlikely.” Sam turned off the gas and split scrambled eggs on two plates he prepared earlier. “Werewolves don't any special preferences for human hearts and they cannot control themselves during transformation, so any deliberate action is out of question in their case. No, it must be something else entirely.”

“Okay. We'll do some research and then hit the road.”

They settled on the kitchen table and started eating. Dean figured that normal people who lived apple live probably would be horrified at how simple and sparse their breakfast was compared to the fully nutritious, recommended by the doctors dish composed of pancakes with maple syrup, fried bacon and sausages, sunny side up eggs, toasts with jam and two full glasses of milk and orange. While Dean liked to get stuffed and he wasn't ashamed to admit it, the life on the road got him accustomed to eating little and rarely.

Also, normal people wouldn't talk about corpses and gory deaths over said breakfast. Supposedly, it spoils the appetite.

“So, it cannot be a werewolf” Dean concluded, chewing on the food. “I guess wendigo is out of question, too.”

“And rugaru, ghouls” Sam counted on his free left hand. “None of those monsters limits themselves to just one body part. What’s stranger, according to reports the hearts were removed expertly and fast, so the victims ended up choking on their own blood.”

The scrambled eggs were perfect. Well fried, but moist. Dean listened to Sam, barely keeping himself from moaning in pleasure. No reason to boost his brother’s ego, it already reached dangerous size.

“Maybe it’s some sort of ritual conducted by witches” Dean offered eagerly. Out of every evil thing he faced in the past, he hated witches in particular, so it was an enticing idea to kill few of them to relax, what with the nightmares robbing him of sleep lately. Maybe it will keep him from shouting at Sam so frequently. “They could mind-control a monster to do the dirty work, while they collect the fruits. I mean, are there even monsters that limit their eating habits to just human hearts?”

Sam gave him a you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me look, but before he could break into yet _another_ lecture about how he was _so much smarter_ than his dumb little brother and he knew monster lore _better_ despite hunting for a shorter period of time than Dean, a gravelly voice responded: “I assure you such creatures exists.”

Dean almost choked on the eggs. Once he managed to swallow the food, he turned around, coughing frantically, to see Cas standing by the refrigerator.

“I apologize” the angel said, staring at Dean with worry. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Then don’t sneak in so suddenly!”

Dean lowered his eyes to the now empty plate, unable to look directly at the angel.

It was the first time they've seen each other in two weeks, ever since he choose Cas over Benny and Dean still couldn't figure out how the hell he came around to taking the whole courtship bullshit seriously, let alone picking one of the men to date. He was straight, for fuck's sake! He must've had temporarily lost his mind to go thought with it! Yeah, that was a good explanation, _the only_ explanation, because it only took some pursuing from Cas and one touchy-feely conversation with Sam for him to be all over the idea of humping a dude like nobody's business.

Even back then a sensible part of his mind tried to warn him it was an insane idea and he deliberately rushed things before the rest of his brain caught on. That's how he ended up in his current situation, with Cas officially dating him and Sam _knowing_ how fucking gay his brother was. It was awful and disgusting and just plain _wrong_ , but there was nothing he could do about it.

“How do you propose I should appear to avoid similar situation in the future?” Cas asked.

“Well, you could buzz us to give some warning” Dean said.

A confusion appeared in Cas's voice. “' _Buzz'_ you?”

Despite himself Dean looked up and saw that the angel tilted his head and knitted his eyebrows as he usually did when he was confronted with something incomprehensible to him. Immediately a guilt washed over Dean over his previous thoughts. How could he be mad at Cas when all the angel wanted was to make him happy?

“It means that you call us and then hang up before we answer” Sam clarified. “That way we'd know you're about to appear.”

“I understand” Cas confirmed and a soft smile spread on his lips as if he was genuinely happy to learn such a basic human custom. “If this solution makes you more comfortable, I will accommodate myself to it.”

“Yeah, that would be great.”

But Cas wasn't paying any more attention to either of the Winchesters. He took few steps toward the hallway and looked around the kitchen curiously.

“Where are we? I can sense numerous protective sigils all over this building and they're far too old to have been put here by you.”

“This bunker was constructed from scratch by Men of Letters, an organization our grandfather belonged to” Sam explained. He stood up and threw the dirty plates into the sink, then leaned against the kitchen counter as Cas continued his ' _sense-exploration_ ' or however it was called. “They were also hunting monsters and demons, but focused more on researching then going out into the field.”

“Bunch of snobs were afraid they'd ruin their manicure” Dean sneered from over his coffee mug.

Sam sighed. “They just wanted to find new, _more effective_ ways of hunting.”

“And that's why they never shared their finding with anyone?” Dean was seriously sick of Sam's endless understanding for everyone, especially those self-centered Men of Letters who had sticks so far up their asses that they must have caused brain damages. “Oh, wait, no. They wouldn't share their finding with hunters, because we're just a bunch of dirty neanderthals who don't deserve to know their precious secrets. God knows how many people died thanks those bastards' snobism.”

“I’m sure there were other reasons—”

The way this argument was heading, Sam most likely would earn himself a punch, which is why it was a good thing that Cas interrupted him: “I must admit this bunker is a remarkable construction. The protective sigils are embedded into the walls, floors and even framing of the entire building. Nothing short of destroying this place could remove them.” He turned to the brothers, but his gaze focused mostly on Dean. “You’re both completely safe here. No supernatural creature can possibly penetrate this security.”

“Except for angels, apparently” Dean noted.

“Yes” Cas agreed. “However, you cannot blame Men of Letters for not being prepared to face creatures that didn’t walk Earth in a thousand of years.”

Dean smirked. “Don’t worry, I have _other_ things to blame them for.”

Castiel furrowed his eyebrows and tilted his head to the left, giving one of those confused look he was so fond of. Dean only vaguely noticed that Sam started hovering around the kitchen counters, shuffling some things around, but he couldn’t care less, lost for a moment in the angel’s blue eyes.

 _No, those are_ Jimmy Novak’s _eyes, not Cas’s,_ the hunter remembered. _He only borrowed them. Angels in their true form don’t have such mesmerizing features._

Wait, did that mean _Jimmy_ was actually the one he found attractive?

Son of a bitch!

“Uh, maybe I should leave” Sam broke the silence “so you two can spend some time alone.”

Dean glared at the other man. What he fuck was he even talking about? Judging by Sam’s embarrassed expression, he expected them to suddenly jump at each other and start humping in front of him right here, right now, on the dirty kitchen table. Suddenly, a trail of panic washed over Dean's back when he remembered how two weeks ago Sam told him that he and Castiel had a habit of holding gaze for a ridiculously long periods of time.

Have they… have they just done it a moment ago and he _haven’t even realized_?!

Shit, he had to _immediately_ set things straight.

“What for?” Dean snapped. “We’re only going to talk.”

“You might have some subjects you’d like to talk over in privacy” Sam shrugged, grinning innocently.

“ _We don’t_.”

For a couple of second the brothers stared at each other in challenge, until the little bitch admitted defeat and lowered his eyes to the ground. Satisfied, Dean sat more comfortably in his chair and turned back to Castiel, wanting to explain to him how he should just ignore the nonsense Sam was spouting…

…instead he jerked when a familiar song blasted from the kitchen counter and his eyes zeroed on his cell phone, where recording played words “ _Who is that freckled beauty I long?_ ” followed by a loud growling that sounded like a wounded hog. Dean was instantly on his feet to turn it off, _turn it the fuck off_.

Once the recording stopped, Cas beamed with happiness. “Dean! You set my serenade as your ring tone!”

No, he _didn’t_! How the fuck it even ended up—

That's when he noticed Sam discreetly slipping his own cell phone back into the pocket of his robe and then turning to stare at the wall, wearing the most innocent expression he could muster. Oh, that fucking, over-sized snot! Dean checked the list of ring-tones and saw that the file titles “Ode to the Freckled Beauty” was currently selected.

Sam's not going to get away with this one if it's the last thing Dean does in his life!

“You really liked it” Cas said.

“Well” Dean struggled to get his voice working again. “I told you that two weeks ago, didn't I?”

“I thought you were only being generous.”

Okay, so Cas wasn't as oblivious as he appeared.

Unfortunately, at this point Sam decided to join the conversation: “Oh, he absolutely loved it!” Ignoring silent threats of violence from Dean, he leaned closer to Cas and lowered his voice, like he was giving away a deep secret not meant to be heard by anyone else besides the two of them. “You know, every night I catch Dean laying in his bed with his headphones on. Of course, he'll never admit to it, but I think I have a solid idea what he's listening to so religiously.”

Dean was _boiling_ inside and wanted nothing more than to deny everything (he was _of course_ playing classic rock, as he _always_ does), then maybe punch Sam’s smug face a couple of times for good measure, but _goddamned_ , Cas looked _so happy_ that Dean didn’t have the heart to take it away from him. That’s why he remained silent and instead entertained himself with plans of getting back at his bitchy brother.

“Actually, now that we’re talking about your song, I wanted to ask you something” Sam said, pretending that it _just_ came back in his memory. “If one day Dean _accidentally_ deletes it, would you be able to rerecord it?”

There will be _at least_ two black eyes and then Dean’ll go with the flow.

“That won’t be a problem” Cas assured wholeheartedly. “I have the lyrics memorized, so I am capable of performing the song at any point.”

“You’ve heard it, Dean?” Sam smiled at his brother. “You don’t have to worry anymore about losing his song.”

“What a relief” the older Winchester responded, deciding to add a split lip to the revenge list.

However, his attention was drawn away from Sam by Cas who gave him another of those serene looks, making the hunter feel a painful squeeze in his stomach. Why did he always do that? Why Cas insisted on staring at him like he was some sort miracle worth admiring? The explanation Cas gave didn’t make any sense, that Dean supposedly changed his life and made him realize he didn’t have to be a mindless tool in Heaven’s hand. It was ridiculous, Dean couldn’t have such influence on anybody. There had to be another explanation.

“I have to go now” Cas explained like he truly regretted it. At the last second Dean refrained from asking him to stay a little longer, because for sure he needed to take care of some more important things, maybe even world-saving ones, than hanging out in the bunker. “But I promise I will return as soon as possible.”

Which could mean _months_ in Cas’s case.

“Warn us ahead of time and we’ll bake a ‘ _welcome back_ ’ pie” Dean joked.

“Dean, I don’t taste food the way you do. I won’t be able to truly appreciate the effort.”

“That’s not…” The hunter faltered and sighed in exasperation. Sometimes he wished Cas would have a better grasp on human customs as it was exhausting to explain every single detail to him. Other times he wanted Cas to stay exactly the way he was. “It’s about the _gesture_ , okay?” Dean finally managed to said. “About showing that we’re glad to have you back.”

Cas nodded. “I understand now.” After a brief pause to noted: “Humanity can be very complicated”.

“Tell me about it.”

“I just did.”

You silly, clueless angel. “You’re right. Sorry.”

Somehow Cas must have realized he made another stupid comment, because he tore his eyes away from Dean and lowered them on the kitchen counter in embarrassment. Well, that’ll be the first time either of the Winchester brothers made _him_ feel awkward instead of the other way around.

But once the initial satisfaction passed, Dean took a pity on the angel. It wasn’t his fault that for the entire life he had a limited interactions with people and couldn’t learn their culture. So despite the glory of the moment, Dean opened his mouth to dissolve the tension.

Suddenly Cas moved toward him and the hunter’s heart skipped a beat.

_Cas wanted to kiss him goodbye._

They’ve never done it before or even discussed the possibility, but Dean fucking _knew_ that’s exactly what was about to happen. Seeing the angel’s determined expression, a wave of panic washed over Dean as he fully realized he was about to be kissed by a _man_. A man he agreed to date.

Fuck, he couldn’t stand to look. When Cas stopped in front of him and reached out, Dean shut his eyes tight, waiting for the feeling of a warm hand pulling him forward and chapped lips pressing against his own. A cold fear slowly crept its way back up inside his chest and latched onto the heart, toying with it and making Dean struggle to breath.

Mere second passed, but they dragged like hours.

Why Cas wasn’t doing anything?

“Dean.”

The sound of worry in that familiar, gravelly voice made him snap his eyes open.

“Are you alright?” Cas asked, staring in confusion.

Before Dean could find his voice again to answer the question, he was distracted by a sharp pain in his palm. He looked down and realized he was crushing the cell phone with his right hand, the skin white from the pressure. He quickly eased the grip and the dull throbbing replaced the pain.

He also noticed that Cas was holding the articles he picked from the kitchen counter.

That’s why he came closer. That’s what he reached for.

He never intended to kiss Dean.

Cas didn’t even have sexual urges, so there was no reason to believe he expected something physical from their relationship to begin with. Dean just freaked out for no reason.

“Yeah, I’m fine” he assured.

“I wanted to try and identify the monster you’ll be hunting” Cas explained.

“Right. Do that and I’ll, uh…” Dean waved in the direction of the door, unsure what to say, so he let his hand fall down uselessly and smack against his tight. He glanced back, where Sam was watching him with worry.

That did it. Dean fled from the kitchen and headed toward his room.

The maze of hallways seemed to drag longer than usual as if the bunker itself was playing tricks on him by expanding its size and changing the location of each turn, thus delaying Dean’s return to the one place he could calm down in. Once he took the wrong turn and almost ended up in the armory, before realizing his mistake and turning back. He started getting more and more frustrated. Why was it so hard for him to find his way around all of a sudden? It’s like he was never inside this building!

Dean increased the pace, his feet hitting the ground hard and sending the echo of footsteps all over the hallways, once again causing an impression that someone was following him. But there was nobody else here, except for Sam and Cas. No one could sneak inside the bunker, the protective sigils prevented them from doing it.

Nevertheless, uneasiness set in his heart and he sped up even more.

Finally, Dean reached his room. After closing the door, he slumped on the bed, propped his elbows on the knees and rubbed his face with palms of both hands, then stayed in this position for the longer time.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

The mere thought of being kissed by Cas send him into a panic attack. _Him_ , the hunter who bravely faces hordes of monsters and demons on weekly bases in hopes of making the world a better place, who never backed from a fight no matter how powerful his foe was, who sneered in the face of Devil himself and _got away with it_ . And now he lost his shit at the idea of his _boyfriend wanting to kiss him_ . It was pathetic, absolutely _pathetic_ . Sam was right that there was something seriously wrong with his priorities and values, when he was able to _kill innocent people_ in self-defense, but couldn't go through with kissing his boyfriend.

 _Boyfriend_.

It was the first time Dean stopped dancing around the issue and actually addressed Cas that way. _They were a couple_.

Suddenly the reality of the whole situation slammed into his face, causing cold sweat to appear on his back. After thirty years of considering himself straight, Dean hooked up with a man. He sit upright, struggling to breath.

A vivid memory of cold, sneering voice appeared in his mind: “ _I knew you'd enjoy it._ ”

He could almost feel a hand tugging at his hair and fingernails digging into his skull, taste of sulfur on his tongue as he desperately tried to please the demon in front of him. _Anything_ to delay return on the racks for just a couple of minutes. Dean didn't enjoy it when those words were spoken, but over time, as his soul blackened, he indeed started to like pleasuring his Master. And torturing innocent people alongside him. It made him feel special, the idea of being an obedient pet to one of the most powerful and vicious demons out there, the Grand Torturer himself.

Alastair.

Years ago Sam assured that he killed Alastair, that he used the power he was infused with by Azazel to burn the life out of him and then left his remains to rot in the factory. Cas confirmed the story.

However, Alastair never died to Dean. He returned in his nightmares every few weeks to continue the torture and mind games he was so fond of. Whenever Dean felt a rush of satisfaction from downing an enemy, there was a cold voice congratulating him or criticizing the method used. And every time Dean wanted to kiss Cas, Alastair sneered at his eagerness, because he was the one who broke through the hunter's resistance.

Alastair was the reason, why Dean hooked up with Cas.

 

 

***

 

He woke up in some dark and moldy place, laying on his stomach. With his nose and cheek pressed against concrete floor, he breathed steadily. He could sense small specks of dirt getting inside his nostrils on every inhale as he tried to remember what happened. There was a pain from claws cutting into his chest…

Lilith!

In one, quick motion he rolled onto his back and tried to jump up on his feet to get ready for escape, but lost his balance and ended up kneeling instead. Fuck. Why was he so weakened? _Get a hold of yourself, Dean, there's a demon nearby_. So he grit his teeth and looked up despite overwhelming dizziness, only to realize there was nobody in sight. He was in the middle of area brightened by what seemed like a stage light, but when Dean glanced up, he didn't see anything, even ceiling, only darkness closed firmly above his head. Concrete floor around was completely bare, except for two steel squares that rose eight feet upwards and were connected on top by another square. On closer inspection Dean noticed that each corner had a chain with cuffs attached to it…

That's when he heard them.

Screams in the distance.

Dean jerked his head and searched around as the cries of agony continued from all directions, but the thick darkness didn't allow to see anything. He could only keep kneeling and listening, when it finally dawned on him.

Was this… Hell?

It certainly didn't look like described in fiction. No fire and brimstone. Quite the opposite, actually: Dean could feel a chill seeping through his clothes and wherever he wouldn't look, outside the spotlight it was pitch black like in the middle of the night on the countryside. Except without stars and moon shining brightly to give comfort. All this place needed to complete the picture was a dead silence. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case. Oh, how Dean wished it was quiet down here.

He stood up, keeping weary of the borders. If this really was Hell, there might be a demon ready to ambush him and start torture, maybe they were watching him right now, hidden in the dark, waiting for an opening to strike. Or maybe the luck was on his side (yes, because Dean Winchester was _known_ for his _luck_ ) and they yet to notice his presence. Either way, no chance he'll allow himself to get strapped to racks without putting a fight. However, it was difficult to notice anyone in the distance. Dean could see only a couple of feet in front of him and the screams, while distant and faint, could easily drown steps.

 _Stay focused, Winchester_ , he thought. _If you play this well enough, you might even get out from this place._

Everyone said there was no escape from Hell. Once you ended up down there, all hope was lost. But Dad managed to do it. He put up with a full year of torture and then clawed his way out. Sure, Dean wasn't as tough as Dad, but that didn't mean he couldn't repeat his same stunt. Then he'll see Sam and Bobby again—

A rattle behind him caused Dean to spin around. He searched, but didn't notice the source. That is, until he looked down on the ground, where one of the chains clearly moved. He took a cautious step closer, ready to jump away at any moment. He felt a breath getting knocked out of him once he examined the chain more thoroughly. The cuff at the end of it had a metal stake running through the center. If anyone was attached to it, the stake would pierce the flesh, causing an excruciating pain and leaving them with no chance at getting out.

Not only Dean's presence was noticed, but he was placed right in front of the rack he will be tortured on.

And the chain obviously didn’t move on its own. There must’ve been a demon hiding just out of view in the darkness, toying with Dean and trying to make him fear of what was coming. Dammit, if it wasn’t working.

Dean watched the cuff carefully as he stepped backwards. Once he was out of the reach, he turned and looked around. He had to figure out where the demon was hiding, so he could bolt in the other direction and try to search for some exit. Back when Azazel opened the gates of Hell, Dean learned it wasn’t the only existing one in the world or even the United States alone. The problem was opening them up. Those were the types of doors their creators wanted to keep shut after all and put a lot of care to achieve it, but Dean’ll worry about that later. First order of business was getting away from the watchful eyes of the demon before him.

A trail of sweat started dripping down Dean’s temple. How come his body was functioning normally? He was dead. Souls didn’t sweat, didn’t breath or…

Or feel pain.

The demons had to do something to make people down here keep all of their earthly sensations in order to increase the suffering. It was the only explanation.

Shit, Dean was absolutely terrified and could feel his heart beating against the ribs like it was trying to break free. However, he didn’t allow himself to show it. He kept patiently searching around, getting more and more fussed with every passing minute. The demon wasn’t rushing to start the torture and the wait for an attack was agonizing. Clearly, the bastard knew what he was doing.

The drip of sweat got into his eye. Dean blinked at the sudden stinging and reached to whip it out

Another rattle of chains was his only warning.

Before he could react in any way, the two lower cuffs shut around his ankles, forcing the stake to pierce through his bones and flesh with a sickening crunch.

Dean _screamed_ , joining the chorus of other victims.

_Fuck!_

_Jesus fucking Chri—_

The pain was _unbearable_.

Feeling tears streaming down his cheeks, Dean clenched his teeth and with shaking hands struggled to tear the metal rings away, but only managed to yank the stakes inside his ankles, causing additional suffering. The blood _gushed_ from both wounds, soaking his socks and boots, covering his trembling fingers.

Despite knowing it was hopeless, Dean continued on trying to free himself. A part of his mind that wasn’t focused on the overwhelming agony or tearing the cuffs away showed the hunter a vision of Sam and Bobby looking at him in shock when he appears alive and well, followed by their relieved embrace. It gave him just enough strength to keep fighting. He _could do it_ , he _could get out_ from this place and reunite with them. He just had to try _harder_.

Suddenly, a cold chuckle came from the darkness. Dean’s heart skipped a beat and he jerked his head up, but still wasn’t able to make out anyone.

Then the upper cuffs closed around his wrists, forcing the stakes inside his flesh and tearing another scream out of Dean’s throat. Just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, he was _yanked_ backwards and got hanged up by his hands a couple of feet above the ground, the pressure and the spasms of his muscles only increasing the fresh pain. The blood was streaming down his arms and down the sides, soiling his t-shirt and jeans.

Dean gritted his jaw so hard, he was sure it’ll break apart any moment.

 _Work through pain_ , he ordered himself.

No, fuck… It’s too much…

_Calm. Down._

Okay, okay, he could handle it. He's done it in the past, when he was badly injured during a hunt and either Sam or Dad were forced to quickly sew him back together without anesthetics. Pain was one of the main parts of hunter's life and he learned how to deal with it years ago.

As the screams of agony continued in the distance, sending chills down his spine ( _Will I join them soon?_ ), Dean closed his eyes and started a routine: inhaling deeply through the nose and exhaling through the mouth. Over time his heartbeat returned to its mostly normal pace and the pulsating pain in the newly acquired wounds became subdues, allowing the hunter to regain clarity of mind. Now that he was strapped to the rack, his chances of escaping shrunk even further, but the situation still wasn't hopeless. He could try to manipulate the demon who put him up here to let him go. The crossroad bitch he made the deal with gave him one year of extra life despite her superior's wishes. Maybe she was just talking out of her ass, something those Hell bastards were good at. However, if she was honest… well, that meant some demons were willing to make concessions. He had to hold to this hope and the things might turn around.

That's when a nasal voice reached his ears: “Dean Winchester.” It was stretching the words out like the owner carefully tasted each of them to give them just the right feel. “I'm glad to _finally_ meet you.”

Dean snapped his eyes open.

At the edge of light was standing a thin, middle-aged man sporting a beard with some graying hair. He was dressed in white button-up, brown dress pants and black, shiny shoes. Admittedly, after all the buildup Dean was baffled by the demon's unimpressive appearance.

“Your boss couldn't find anyone more intimidating for me?”

Dean probably shouldn't taunt his potential torturer, but the first rule of hunting said “ _Don't EVER show that you're scared. The moment an enemy sees you fear, you're done for_ ” and it was drilled into his head by Dad. While John Winchester had no idea how to take care of his children, he was a great teacher on the subject of hunting.

Besides, Dean didn't plan to stay down here for much longer.

The demon snorted. “I guess he was short on staff. Hopefully, my _skills_ will prove to be more satisfactory.”

For the first time since getting here it really started to dawn on Dean that he’s about to be tortured. As he watched the demon’s calm expression devoided of any sympathy, the stakes in his wrist and ankles appeared to be burning into his flesh.

_No, stay calm. Proceed according to plan._

“Look, pal” Dean started, bringing the most confident smile he could muster in current circumstances. The demon raised an eyebrow at the nickname, but remained silent. “How about you just let me go? You could untie me and look the other way for a couple of minutes, while I take off. I’m sure your boss won’t get too mad. I mean” Dean looked around the place “it must be very easy to lose a soul around here. You could invest in a better lighting, is what I’m saying.”

Dean saw the demon scratch his beard as he pondered the proposition.

“And what would _I_ get out of this?”

That was a good question and one Dean haven’t asked himself yet. What a mortal man could offer a creature who possessed supernatural powers and could create anything from thin air?

What Dean learned from his interactions with demons over the past few years is that they _love_ wrecking havoc and they get _extremely_ pissy when someone tries to put a stop to it. They were like a bunch of immature and particularly cruel teenagers. No care in the world for anyone’s safety.

“Total immunity” Dean said. “If you get out on the surface, no one will harm you.”

Of course, he was bluffing. No chance in Hell (and since he already was there, he could tell for sure) that Dean will allow any demon to run around freely, murdering and tormenting innocent people, but he only needed to convince the one in front of him he was telling the truth and he’ll worry about getting out of this arrangement once he’s back on Earth.

“You could do that?” the demon doubted. “Keep _all_ of the hunters out of my way?”

“Admittedly, it would take some time to set” Dean responded “but yeah, I could. In case you don't know, I'm pretty famous in the hunter's community and everyone respects my word.”

Judging by the demon's expression, he wasn't buying any of it. He stepped closer and carefully studied Dean's features. “But would _your_ _conscience_ let you do that? To _ignore_ my cruel behavior?”

Dammit, he needed to do a better job.

“I won't lie. Knowing that I'm letting a demon get away with tortures and murders will make me incredibly guilty, but those few lives you'll take are nothing compared to how many I'll save.” Dean felt sick for saying all of this and could barely squeeze the words out of his mouth. He had to remind himself over and over that he didn't intend on keeping the promise. It was just a means to an end. “So, as you can see” Dean swallowed to moisture his dry throat “it isn't such a high price to pay.”

“Really? You wouldn't do anything if I murdered all those men and women” the demon grinned “and _children_.”

Before his brain could even process those words, Dean blurted: “Buddy, leave kids out of this!”

“If my memory serves, you said ' _total_ _immunity_ '. Unless you've changed your mind and don't want to get out anymore.”

Dean clenched his teeth to prevent any insults that swarmed on his tongue from slipping out. _Just go with it,_ he ordered himself. _You're not planning to keep this promise after all._ So in spite of his disgust, he looked at the smirking demon, feeling bile collecting in his stomach. “You've got it.” He couldn't help, but to growl those words.

The demon's eyes widened in surprise. “Well, I didn't expect you to agree on that. Now I'm tempted to test your honesty. Go to the surface and find some victim, let's say...” The demon waved his hand in the air, like he was going through all possibilities. Eventually he grinned and looked Dean straight into eyes. “...a twelve years old girl.”

 _You fucking scumbag_ , Dean thought, but didn't say anything. He had to play this right to get out of Hell and _prevent_ such situations from happening.

“I'll possess her loving father, take her somewhere remote and start raping her for entire day and entire night, savoring in her _screams_ and _pain_. Then, once I'm done with her and she'll look at me with those innocent, teary eyes” the demon moved his mouth closer to Dean's ear; the faint smell of sulfur was noticeable in his warm breath as he finished “I'll fucking shot her in the face.”

Dean lunged forward, wanting to rip the demon apart, but the cuff held him in place and the stakes jerked inside his flesh. He cried in pain, feeling a fresh blood seeping from the wounds. When he struggled to breathe again, a cold chuckle reached his ears.

“I wouldn’t do that. I’ve heard those stakes sting just a _tiny bit_ when you waggle too much.”

“You fucking monster!” Dean screamed so loud, his lungs and throat burned from effort.

The demon was unhinged. “Why, Dean. How can you speak like this to your business partner?”

“I’ll kill you! Do you hear me?! _I’ll fucking kill you, no matter what it takes!_ ”

“And here I thought we had a deal.” The demon tsked. “ _So_ disappointing. In that case, shall we proceed with the main event?” He raised the right hand and snapped his fingers.

Instantly Dean’s clothes ripped apart and fell off, slowly disintegrating in the air, until noting has left of them. The hunter gasped in shock and tried to look down at his naked body, but that caused a pressure on the cuffs and stakes, sending another wave of pain through his arms. He quickly straightened up and closed his eyes, chocking back a groan. He really had to stop moving around. Right now he was making the situation worse by himself, the proper torture haven’t even started yet.

Fuck.

It’s about to start.

The torture.

And it will continue for years to come.

Despite the inclination to remain calm and plan his grand escape, Dean felt a blind panic pouring into his heart and clouding his better judgment. He could only focus on the screams of the damned and the overpowering thought that in a matter of minutes he’ll join them. He’s doomed. They all are. They’ll stay here on the racks for years and over time turn into those hellish bastards. Like the Yellow Eyed demon who murdered Dean’s mother and drove his father to becoming uncaring asshole obsessed with revenge.

Will he do the same thing in the future? Will he sneak into a house of unsuspecting family and ruin their lives just because he can?

Dean snapped his eyes open at the sudden touch on his skin. Thankfully, it wasn’t any tool yet, but an index finger the demon moved up and down his chest, fondling it like a lover.

“Human body is a fascinating construct” the tormentor said, his eyes locked on Dean’s face. “The collection of flesh, bones, joints and nerves that can broken in so many ways. Of course, as fun as it is to cut into people, if you abuse them too much, they die.” A wide grin spread on demon’s face. “No such worry with souls, though.” His finger moved down and started sliding around Dean’s bellybutton. “You probably noticed that you can feel any sensation the way you could on the surface. We use magic to create pseudo-bodies for our guest to _enhance_ their entertainment without such nuisance like fainting from pain or blood loss.” The demon briefly scraped his fingernail against the sensitive skin, before moving lower. “So don’t worry, I can cut you in any way imaginable and you won’t miss a thing.”

When the demon’s finger skimmed against his dick, Dean jerked away. That only send another sharp pain down his arms, but he quickly recovered and growled: “Take you hands of you me, you worthless demon!”

“The name’s Alastair.”

“I don’t care!”

“You should. We’ll be spending quite some time together and I'll enjoy _every_ _second_ of it.”

That satisfied smirk was seriously getting at Dean's nerves, so he spit in the demon's face. He felt a brief rush of delight when saliva hit exactly between the eyes, but it quickly died down as Alastair simply cleaned himself off and looked at the hunter as if he was just a spoiled child throwing a temper tantrum.

“I'm really glad we crossed our paths, Dean. The defiant souls provide a greater challenge and pleasure once they start breaking down. It's people like you that give the life a true flavor.”

Dean was so fucking scared, completely alone and at mercy of this psycho, but he refused to show it. Whatever happens, he won't give in. Even if his suffering continues for eternity, he won't became a demon. He was a hardened hunter at the core, he could withstand anything.

Next to the rack appeared a metal table. Various tools – knives, saws and things Dean didn't know the names for – were lined on it neatly, clean and ready to be used. Alastair slowly reached out and his hand circled over the items, before he settled for a scalpel. “We should start with flaying. It's a simple, but effective introduction to torture.” When he didn't get any response, he lowered his hand to the hunter's chest.

Dean held his breathe as the edge of the scalpel touched his skin. He expected a piercing pain right away, but instead the blade only left a shallow slit, no bigger than the one you could get from a paper. After years of getting beaten up and injured during hunts, his resistance to pain sky-rocketed, so such a small mark barely fazed him. He glanced at Alastair, who was watching him expectantly. The bastard was just playing with him.

“That's the best you can do?” Dean sneered.

“You need to have patience, Pet” Alastair advised, lazily flicking the scalpel and leaving another minor cut. “If I rush through things, you won't get the _full_ experience and I wouldn't dare to give you anything less.”

“I'm not your fucking Pet.”

“Oh, but you are. You just haven't realized it yet.”

The hunter braced himself. “Stop screwing around and give me your best.”

And Alastair did. For thirty years, until Dean finally broke.

 

***

 

In Dean’s memories most of those thirty years turned into a blur of pain and misery with only few moments standing out in particular. Nevertheless, he could recall every sensation he felt as his body was broken and torn apart in new ways, the tone of Alastair’s voice when he taunted Dean and reshaped him into a sadistic, obedient student. In sharp contrast to his own time on the rack, the hunter remembered vividly each minute he spend as the tormenter, the blood he spilled, bones he crushed, all tears and sobbed pleadings of his victims.

Ten years of indulging in his darkest and sickest fantasies, ten years of feeling pride at being Alastair’s personal student, before Cas showed up pull him out of Hell.

While he knew why angels wanted to resurrect him, Dean wished they grabbed someone else, someone innocent who didn’t spend years inflicting pain on others for his own amusement.

He deserved to stay in the Pit.

Dean sighed and shook his head. No point in thinking about those past event. He wasn’t able to change anything, so best to just deal with the memories the way he always does: keep them locked in the back of his mind, until they decide to pay him a visit in nightmares. For now he and Sam had a hunt to take care of. Best to hit the shower, then check if Cas figured out what type of monster was killing those people in Los Alamos, New Mexico.

But as he was digging through his drawer for a towel, Dean paused and inhaled deeply.

Nothing.

 _Strange_ , he thought as he returned to his search. For a moment there he could swear he smelled sulfur…


	2. Presence

The clock hanging on the wall showed 11:17 pm when Dean entered his room in the bunker and flipped the lights on. He finished drying his hair and threw the wet towel on the dresser. Freshly showered, Dean enjoyed how loose his muscles felt and he couldn’t wait to bury himself in the sheets on his comfy, _tempting_ bed. Just what he needed after another rough hunt.

So of course his cell phone started ringing at that precise moment.

With a deep sigh, Dean strode to the nightstand, cursing the person who decided to contact him. Usually such a late call meant troubles. Hopefully, it wasn’t Kevin. He was currently hidden on Garth’s freighter and protected by countless sigils, so he should be safe, but Crowley might have found a way to sneak past the security. Fuck, just thinking about Crowley made Dean shudder. He didn’t see the bastard in two weeks, ever since telling him what a pathetic little creature he really was, and he wasn’t in a mood to face the King of Hell just yet.

But one glance on the phone screen eased the worry out of Dean's heart. “CAS”. It didn't necessarily indicate there was no problem to take care of, but more likely than not it was just an update. As Dean answered, he couldn't stop a smile from spreading on his lips.

“Heya, Cas.”

“Hello, Dean” the angel greeted. His voice was filled with affection that smoothed it’s gravelly sound a little. “Are you and Sam still occupied with the hunt?”

“Nah, we’ve gotten back this afternoon.”

Thanks to the list of monsters that Cas provided, it was a short and rather straightforward hunt. All the Winchesters had to do was to check for the methods of kills, pack the mandatory equipment and drive to Los Alamos to determine on the spot, which culprit was guilty. There were six names to choose from, but one immediately caught Dean’s attention. Not because he was familiar with the creature, but because how _dumb_ it sounded. “Wakwak”. Like someone repeatedly getting smacked in the face. Dean thought that was the most hilarious thing he’s ever heard in his entire life, that is until Sam read the creature’s description from the Internet.

Apparently, Wakwak was a monster from Philippine mythology, a half-bird, half-vampire, that indeed fed on human hearts that it cut out from the victims with razor sharp claws. The silly name came from the sound its wings produced. Oh, and if that wasn't ridiculous enough, that sound was clearly audible only if Wakwak wasn't interested in you. Once it chose you as a victim, the wings would be too quiet for you to hear it until it was too late. For no reason.

Okay, Dean has met a lot strange creatures in his lifetime, but there was _no fucking chance_ this monster was real. It was just a boogeyman parents used to scare their kids into obedience. Cas could insist otherwise and claim he saw it with his own eyes as much as he wanted, Dean _refused_ to believe that Wakwak existed.

So of course it turned out to be responsible for the murders in Los Alamos.

And while the description on the Internet was comical, Dean wasn’t in the laughing mood anymore once he met the creature face to face. Wakwak was _huge_ , easily towering over him and even Sam, pale like a corpse and equipped with a set of sharp claws and teeth. Since they stumbled upon it when it was about to chomp on some poor sap, Wakwak roared in anger and launched into the air, then attacked. Dean had just enough time to notice the characteristic sound its wings were making, now subdues like it was coming from a great distance, before he had to jump out of the way. Unfortunately, he managed to land right on a root of nearby tree and instantly dull pain shot through his abdomen, while a gust of wind created by the creature’s speed hit him in the face. Ignoring the injury, he quickly jumped on his feet and joined Sam in showering Wakwak with rain of bullets. After a couple of seconds the creature shrieked and crashed on the ground, now reduced to a mess of blood, flesh and broken bones.

They made sure the victim was fine – thankfully, Wakwak had only time to leave some minor scratches on his face and arms that would heal quickly – and gave him a lift to the nearest motel, then burned the monster’s corpse and headed back to the bunker. In the whole mess that followed Dean forgot about his incident with the tree root, until he tried to lift one of the weapon bags and winced at the sudden pain.

Whatever. He earned far worse injuries in the past.

“Was my list of any help?” Cas asked, bringing Dean back from the memory lane.

“Uh, yeah. You guessed the real culprit correctly. It was…” The hunter faltered. “It was Wakwak.” He could barely force himself to speak the creature’s name. It still sounded stupid, even after he and Sam have downed one.

“I’m glad I could provide some assistance.”

Goddamned, Cas’s voice was _filled_ with contentment like providing help to Dean, no matter how minor, was the most significant achievement in his life. And how Dean showed gratitude? By making fun of Cas throughout the entire hunt for believing in “ _fairytales_ ” like Wakwak. He closed his eyes in shame, remembering how one time he told Sam that soon they’ll have to start checking under the angel’s bed for monsters every night. It earned him another bitch-face, which he dismissed at the time as his brother having no sense of humor, but now… Fuck, he was such an asshole, even to people who only wanted to support him.

It was unlikely that Cas knew about the jokes, unless he turned invisible and stalked them again, but Dean _did_ and it was eating him from inside. He… he had to make up for it somehow.

“You were a real help, Cas” Dean admitted. “Who knows how much longer the hunt would take and how many more people would lose their lives in the meantime. So… thanks for that.”

“It's nothing.”

Dean sighed deeply. “Dude, you need to learn how to take a compliment. If I were in your place, I would brag about it all day and maybe say something snazzy, like ' _Yeah, I know I'm a hot shit_ '.”

“I know you would” Cas said, but there was no accusation in his tone. As if Dean had all the right in the world to boast.

Okay, it was time to change the subject, before their conversation turns into another full blown chick-flick moment. “Anyway” Dean cleared his throat and moved toward the mirror hanging on the wall “why are you calling, instead of texting?” He lifted the bottom of his shirt and examined his bruise in the reflection. It have already turned purple, but wasn't very big, only a thin line on his abdomen. “Not that I mind” he added, pressing the cell phone between his shoulder and ear to touch the injury with freed hand. It barely hurt. “I'm just curious.”

“We concluded four days ago I'm to announce my arrival instead of randomly appearing next to you.”

All Dean managed to say was “What?” before he heard a flutter of wings behind him. He spun around and faced Cas, who still had a cell phone pressed against his ear. With a slow, robotic movement the angel lowered his hand and disconnected. Under scrutiny of those magnetizing blue eyes Dean became painfully aware that he was wearing only a pair of boxers and t-shirt with its bottom raised up. He rushed to cover his stomach, but it was too late as Cas looked at him in concern.

“You've been injured.”

“Don't worry” Dean waved his hand in dismissive gesture. “It was my own fault.” And indeed it was. He made that maneuver numerous times before on various terrains and he had no excuse for flanking it like an amateur. He threw his cell phone on the bed, looking away from that worried stare. Why everyone insisted on mothering him recently?

When Dean turned back, he noticed Cas's hand reaching toward his abdomen and he flinched away.

“Dude, what the fuck?!”

“I just want to heal you.”

Cas did it many times in the past and Dean never had anything against quicker recovery, but right now, while he was dressed in basically nothing and they were alone in the middle of the night… No, he couldn't stand the idea of Cas touching his stomach, because who knew what _other_ _things_ it would lead to?

“No, that's not necessary” Dean assured. “Human body might not be as resistant as angel's, but it's equipped for dealing with minor injuries. Seriously, if I sneeze, you don't have to throw everything aside and rush to my rescue.”

“I wouldn't...” Cas paused for a moment, then looked at the hunter uncertainly. “It was a joke, yes?”

“Indeed. Getting better at human communication, aren't you?”

Dean playfully punched Cas in the arm and gasped in shock. It felt like hitting concrete. Fuck, he keeps forgetting that Cas _wasn't_ human. Rubbing his pulsating knuckles, Dean smiled cheekily.

“As you can see, I get injured easily. Seriously, no need to worry.”

For a moment Dean wanted to sit on the bed, but then realized it might look _inviting_ , so instead he leaned against a wall and crossed arms on his chest. “So, uh, how do you do? What were you up to recently?” _Smooth, Winchester. Are you going to ask him 'Haven't I see you around here before” next?_

Of course, Cas didn't notice the clunky line. “I've been hunting an Indian demigod who tried to kill residents of city called Jamshedpur and use their souls to enslave the entire country. I slayed him this morning.”

“You got rid of the son of a bitch in the morning and didn't call me until now?”

Suddenly, Cas wouldn't meet Dean's eyes. It was a rare instance for the embodiment of awkwardness who specialized in embarrassing others to get flustered and the hunter felt a spike of curiosity. “I wasn't aware you and Sam also finished hunting” Cas explained, sounding like every word was pulled by force from his mouth “and I did not want to interrupt.” Dean waited patiently, knowing there was more coming. And he was right: “Since I had free time, I… I watched a spider build its web.”

Dean held back laughter. “For the entire day?”

“No, it was done in a matter of hours. Then I've seen how it wrapped its first victim in a web.” A faint smile appeared on Cas's face. “It was a truly mesmerizing view.”

“Magical.” Dean sneered. “You know, if you're into this kind of entertainment, I'm sure we can provide it here, in the bunker. You just have to search behind furniture.”

Cas dropped his eyes to the ground and the hunter could swear he saw a blush, even though it was impossible. Angels didn't blush.

“I recognize that my behavior must be ludicrous to you, but sometimes the beauty of my Father's creation really stuns me. Sometimes…” Cas paused and looked around as if he could see the outside world through the bunker's walls. And with his angelic powers, he probably did. “Sometimes I cannot get over the fact what a wonderful world we live in.”

Great, so Dean hooked up with a hippie. He somehow missed that part of Cas's personality between stopping the Apocalypse, angel’s little god trip and escaping from the Purgatory. But it's _fine_ , really. Cas wanted to become emotional over the “ _wonderful world_ ” and watch fucking spiders build their webs, and prance around naked in a field of flowers, he could. However, if he tries to turn Dean into a vegan, he's in for a nasty surprise.

Wait…

“ _Wonderful world_ ”?

Dean picked up his cell phone, flopped down of the bed and started searching through the songs. He knew he had it, one of the few positions on the list that weren't a classic rock. One of the few positions that were _good enough_ to even save along hits by Led Zeppelin and other awesome bands.

“Dean, what are you doing?” Cas asked, sitting next to him.

“You'll see in a moment.”

A triumphant cry escaped from Dean's throat when he finally found the song. He pushed the play button and as the opening tunes started, he put the cell phone next to Cas and looked straight at the angel. “I don't know your taste in music, but you said you love this ' _wonderful world_ ', so you'll probably enjoy this one.”

He barely stopped talking when Louis Armostrong's raspy voice began:

 

_I see trees of green_

_Red roses too._

_I see them bloom,_

_For me and you._

 

“... _And I think to myself, what a wonderful world_ ” Dean sang along.

As on cue Cas's mouth spread in a joyful smile. Unlike his other attempts at expressing emotions, which looked robotic like someone struggling (and failing) to animate a human character, it was completely natural and warm. Dean felt his chest expand in pride. He was the one who managed to get this reaction from Cas and he immediately realized that he wanted to see this smile on the angel's face more often.

 

_I see skies of blue,_

_And clouds of white._

_The bright blessed day,_

_The dark sacred night._

_And I think to myself,_

_What a wonderful world!_

 

_The colours of the rainbow,_

_So pretty in the sky._

_Are also on the faces,_

_Of people going by._

_I see friends shaking hands,_

_Saying “How do you do?”_

_They're really sayin'_

          “ _I love you.”_

 

Those intensely blue eyes rested on him and Dean found himself incapable of looking away. He could spend entire night staring into them.

 

_I hear babies cryin',_

_I watch them grow._

_They'll learn much more_

_Then I'll ever know._

_And I think to myself,_

_What a wonderful world!_

 

_Yes…_

_I think to myself,_

_What a wonderful world!_

 

Dean was so distracted that he missed the point when the song ended and only became aware of it, when the next position on the list _blasted_ from the speakers with sound electric guitars. He jerked up and shut the cell phone off, hoping that Sam wasn’t woken by the sudden noise.

The memory of his brother caused Dean to became aware that mere moment ago he and Cas held a staring contest. Okay, so maybe there was a grain of truth in Sam’s claim that they tended to tune of the rest of the world while looking at each other and it was fucking embarrassing. Dean was making _gooey eyes_ at a guy. Or an angel in dude’s skin. Whatever.

Of course, Cas kept staring at the hunter in familiar, adoring way. “Thank you, Dean” he practically breathed out. “It was a beautiful song.”

After a brief hesitation Dean recovered his voice. “Hey, you _wrote_ one for me, so I had to pay back somehow”.

“Actually, I did not wrote it, that was the Cupid. I am sure I have mentioned it to you and Sam.”

Dean rolled his eyes. They’ve just had a conversation about taking compliments!

“Fine” he agreed. “You _ensured_ he wrote it for me and I’m very thankful.” Even if he wished to erase that terrible piece of crap from existence. “Is that okay?”

Cas nodded, but then his expression turned serious. Realizing that he wanted to breach some important subject, Dean threw the cell phone aside and waited patiently. One thing that differentiated him from Sam was respect for other people’s privacy. While the younger Winchester had to instantly know every single detail the moment someone tried to share personal information with him, Dean always figured that if they want to talk, they will and he saw no reason to rush them.

They sat in silence for a couple of seconds, until Cas turned once again to Dean.

“To be honest, there is a reason I wanted to speak with you tonight” he confessed. Dean kept watching him, but didn't say anything in return. “Why did you became scared of me four days ago, when we were talking in the kitchen?”

Fuck, of all things Cas could have asked about, he chose the one problem Dean preferred to avoid.

What was he suppose to say? What was he suppose to say to an angel who only recently learned that it’s polite to say goodbyes before leaving, let alone more complicated parts of being human? Heck, Cas didn’t even understand the pain the same way Dean did. How Dean could explain what it felt like to be _torn apart_ and molded into one of the creatures he hated the most in the world, the creatures who destroyed his entire life and turned his father into uncaring asshole obsessed with revenge, only to learn to pity then in the process?

No, he couldn’t do that. Cas was expecting too much of him.

Dean hid his face in the palms of his hands and breathed deeply as a sudden pressure appeared on his chest, like someone tied a leather strap around his ribs and started tightening it up, choking the air out of his lungs. He was almost able to smell sulfur and hear a playful, nasal voice telling him that the pain will end the moment he says “ _yes_ ”.

“Cas… Just leave it, okay?”

But Cas shook his head and moved closer. “No, I cannot do that” he argued. “ _Please_ , Dean, tell me what I did wrong, so I can avoid it in the future. The last thing I want is to make you afraid of me again.”

 _Fucking perfect_ . He had no intention of leaving Dean in peace, unless Dean gave him some sort of explanation. With a sight the hunter allowed his hands to fall down on his knees and looked angrily at Cas, determined to end the subject once and for all. “ It wasn’t your fault ” he assured. “It was _me_ , okay? You did _nothing_ wrong. Now drop it.”

“Dean…”

Of course he couldn’t do that. The one time Dean _needed_ him to follow the order, Cas was determined to defy him. Without waiting for another word, the hunter jumped on his feet and stepped away from the bed, keeping his back turned.

“You better go.”

“I just—“

“ _Now_.”

A long silence followed, during which Dean could feel those blue eyes staring into him and wordlessly begging for understanding. It took all the power he had left to not give in, to not take back everything he said back and have Cas stay here for just a little longer.

Finally, a flutter of wings announced that he was left alone.

Just as he asked.

It wasn’t until ten minutes later, when he was laying on the bed and trying to force himself asleep, deep darkness surrounding him, did Dean realize why Cas insisted on getting an answer out of him. The memory of the gravelly voice begging for explanation kept replaying in his mind: “ _The last thing I want is to make you afraid of me again_ ”.

“ _Again_ ”.

After all this time, after all the reassurances that he and Sam forgave him, Cas still felt guilty over consuming the Purgatory’s souls and declaring himself to be the new God.

A wave of annoyance briefly filled Dean’s heart – apparently their words were continuously falling on deaf ears – only to be replaced by shame. While the Winchesters might have pardoned him, it didn’t change the fact that Cas murdered numerous people he deemed to be sinners and then accidentally freed the Leviathans, leading to more deaths. Why Dean was angered that Cas remembered his mistakes and went out of his way to ensure he wouldn’t commit them again? Why wasn’t he _happy_ with it? Here Cas wanted to talk and make things better, only for Dean to throw him out, because he was the one who refused to deal with the past.

He sighed and shifted to lay on his side, struggling to chase away those thoughts. Unfortunately, he upset the bruise and winced in pain, ultimately deciding to remain on his back.

Staring at the ceiling, Dean recognized that he had no right to vent his anger on Cas. He was the one who summoned the crossroad demon, he was the one who sealed the deal, despite knowing the consequences. Really, it was his own fault that he ended up in Hell.

And so was Sam’s addiction to demon’s blood.

Over the years since getting back on the surface Dean met many hunters who were aware of his deal with the demon and congratulated him for having guts to willingly endure such torture in exchange for his brothers’s resurrection. Some of them outright admitted they wouldn’t be able to do the same thing.

However, Dean knew better. From the perspective of time he understood that he didn’t bring Sam back, because he wanted his brother to leave hunting and start a normal life. No, Dean did it entirely for himself. He _refused_ to deal with being alone and decided to push that problem on Sam. At no point during the year that followed did he considered what were Sam’s feelings on the matter and only learned the true extent of the damages he caused when Cas dragged his soul from Hell.

Dean destroyed Sam.

Yes, Ruby had a hand in it as she got the younger Winchester addicted to the demon blood, but Dean was the one who crashed Sam’s spirit and made him vulnerable to such manipulation.

If nowadays Dean was given a choice to make another deal in order to save Sam’s live again, he wouldn’t do it. Now he understood there were was worse tortures awaiting in life than Sam’s death.

Some hero he was. All he could do was hurt people he cared about.

Dean reached for the cell phone that he left on the nightstand and turned it on, only to be temporarily blinded by the flash of screen light. He blinked a couple of times, allowing his eyes to get used to the brightness, then scrolled through the list of numbers in the phone book, until he found the name he was searching for.

“BENNY”.

He pushed the call button and pressed the phone against his ear. He waited patiently for two minutes, listening to steady sound of signal, until the call was rejected. As the screen went dark, Dean slowly let his hand slip down.

A familiar voice in the back of his head whispered: “ _You deserved Hell, Pet._ _We both did._ ”

 

***

 

_Schlik, schlik, schlik._

Dean watched through half-lifted eyelids as the edge of the knife was slowly and methodically dragged against the sharpening stone, producing that unbearable sound. In actuality it wasn’t the sound itself that bothered him and made his heart speed up, but the things he learned to associate with it, the tortures that always followed.

“I’m sure as a hunter you understand the importance of keeping your tools sharp” Alastair said. He raised the knife to his eyes and inspected it briefly, before pressing it back against the stone. “If this knife went dull during the cutting” _schlik_ “it would cause you _unnecessary_ , additional pain” _schlik_ “and I cannot allow such thing to happen to my favorite pet.” Once again Alastair checked the weapon's sharpness and this time nodded with approval. The metal shined brightly in the light from unknown source that illuminated the area Dean grew to recognize as his new home.

He had no idea how much time has passed since he woke up in Hell and Alastair refused to reveal that information, claiming it would provide needless distraction from their activities.

There was nothing to keep Dean's mind of the pain that became the only constant in his life.

Even during the small breaks in torture, when Alastair was busy sharpening the tools or had to leave to take care of some issues he was responsible for as the Grand Torturer, Dean wasn't granted any rest. The stakes piercing his wrist and ankles didn't hurt much if he stayed still, but they kept him on the edge. No matter how much he wanted to close his eyes and forget for a moment about his circumstances, this persistent pressure on his bones and flesh prevented him from drifting away. It was just there, like an itch he couldn't scratch and it was driving him insane. If that feeling disappeared for a moment, just a moment, _five fucking minutes_ to allow him to clear his mind and remind himself why it was the right choice to continuously say ' _no_ ' to Alastair…

But the itch was always there, barely out of reach. Dean's fingers twitched in need to do something about it as Alastair turned toward him, playing with the newly sharpened weapon.

“Now, what should we do with this knife? Any propositions?”

Dean snorted. “How about you shove it up your ass?”

Unimpressed, Alastair raised his eyebrows and calmly stared at the hunter.

Then a sly smile spread on his face.

 _Oh fuck_ . When will Dean _fucking learn_ to keep his mouth shut? To give his torturer an idea like this… It was beyond stupid. It was outright _suicidal_! But there was no talking the words back and Dean could only watch in horror as Alastair stepped closer. The sound of his dress shoes tapping against the concrete floor caused a cold sweat to trail down the hunter’s back and his heart to start pounding in desperation. Involuntarily Dean’s arms jerked, tugging at the stakes in his wrists. He groaned in pain and briefly shut his eyes to get a hold of himself.

“I wonder how much time needs to pass until you learn to stop doing that” Alastair sneered and stopped right in front of his victim. “You’d think the lesson stuck by now, considering how long you were here…”

Right now Dean had no come back ready, no sarcastic comment that he _didn’t know_ how long he’s been in Hell, because Alastair refused to tell him that. No, all he could focus on was the blade of newly sharpened knife. He wanted to plead for mercy and promise everything to stop his tormentor from proceeding. Heck, he’s done i t already, but only during the torture, when various tools were _breaking_ and _tearing_ his body apart, turning him from a foul-mouthed tough guy into a sobbing mess who begged Alastair to stop. Unfortunately, he always got the exact same answer.

“ _I’m not forcing you to endure this torture. You know how to stop it._ ”

By saying ‘ _yes_ ’.

That’s all it would took. He only had to say this three-letters word and Alastair won’t hurt him anymore.

In his imagination Dean was almost able to see Sam and Bobby’s reaction when they learn the man they viewed as a moral, brave hunter agreed to such vile arrangement. The pure disgust twisting their features and both of them proclaiming they’ll kill him the first chance they get.

No, whatever happens, he won’t say ‘ _yes_ ’, even if he has to endure the torture for eternity.

Bracing for the upcoming impact, Dean stared right at the knife in Alastair’s hand. To his surprise the demon slid the blade into the pocket of his pants and moved to Dean’s side. The hunter wasn’t sure what was going on, until a cold hand started fondling his back between shoulder blades.

“I’ve seen _many_ souls during my practice as the Grand Torturer” Alastair admitted “but I must say, Dean, yours is _the most beautiful_ among them.”

Every now and then Alastair got into a mood, when he'd start touching Dean's body, mostly chest and back, sometimes arms and face, proclaiming how wonderful it looked and how much he enjoyed cutting it, seeing the blood seep through the wounds and paint the body in red. During those speeches his voice turned deeper and breathing became quicker. The sick bastard was _literally_ getting off on the idea of mutilating him.

At first Dean tried to fight back, but with his hands and ankles firmly secured there wasn't anything he could do, since words didn't work on Alastair and eventually he learned to ignore it. Right now he focused on the screams in the distance as he felt the fingers caress his skin along the spine that was brutally ripped at out of him not too long ago. Although he could see Alastair's lustful expression with a corner of his eye and it made him sick, he refused to close his eyelids. Then he would… _Jesus Christ_... he would find the touch pleasurable. After being tortured for God knows how long, such delicate fondling, even coming from the demon who caused him pain to begin with, was overwhelming. He could feel warm building in his groin and he clenched his teeth, recalling the last torture he endured, when Alastair decided to scrape his bones clean of the muscles. The memory of unspeakable pain barely kept his erection at bay.

He won't give that scumbag opportunity to mock him for “ _enjoying himself_ ”. He hated that gentle fondling and he hated how his body responded to it against his mind's wishes.

Alastair's hand passed the lower back and started massaging the buttcheeks. One of his fingers slipped between…

“NO!” Dean jerked away from the touch, tugging at the stakes buried inside his limbs. He groaned and immediately stilled, his flesh pounding with pain to the rhythm of his heart. “Don't do that...” he managed to choke out, breathing heavily. “Please, everything but that...”

“Dean Winchester turning down opportunity for sex?” Alastair teased. “I have a hard time believing in that.”

A bile of revulsion collected in Dean’s throat, overpowering the shame and fear. Clenching his jaw in anger, he growled: “Get your hands off me!”

As always Alastair paid no attention to what his victim was saying and calmly returned to the assault, trying to force his fingers past the clenching rim.

“Fuck off!” Dean screamed, struggling to move away, but only managing to worsen the pain in his wrists from the constant movement. The burning sensation was starting to became unbearable. “Get your hands off me, you fucking faggot!”

He gasped in shock, when Alastair pushed through his rectum, the fingernails scrapping against his sensitive flesh, and slid the finger all the way inside dry channel. Dean instantly stilled and only managed to say “No, stop…” before Alastair found his prostate, turning the hunter’s words into a choked cry. The digit started fondling the little bundle of nerves, sending waves of pleasure straight toward Dean’s groin and the blood started to rapidly pump inside his penis. He struggled to stop his erection from forming by focusing on screams in the distance and remembering everything bad that ever happened to him – the night when Yellow-Eyed demon murdered Mom, the smell of Dad’s burning corpse, crying over Sam’s lifeless body after Jake cut his spine – but to no avail. The sensation of Alastair probing his prostate was too overwhelming and in a matter of seconds his cock was standing at full attention.

Dean felt tears collecting in the corners of his eyes as his own body betrayed him, responding with eagerness to being violated by the same demon who spend entire days ripping it apart. Pure fury erupted inside his heart at this treachery. He wanted to free his hands and claw at his own penis, leaving bloody marks with his fingernails, until it turned soft again, until it went completely numb and incapable of getting erected.

In spite of what Dean’s mind wanted, his body loved being prodded by Alastair. The demon leaned closer, bit at Dean’s earlobe and pulled it with his teeth. Then he let go and kissed gently, like a lover would, at the nibbled flesh. “See, Pet?…” he murmured, continuing to peck at his victim’s skin. Once more Dean scented a faint trail of sulfur in Alastair’s breath. “I knew you’d enjoy it… There’s no reason to fight…”

No amount of arguments would convince Alastair to leave him alone, so Dean closed his eyes and hanged limply on the rack. With no resistance left on his side, the demon had an easier access to his asshole and he started pumping in and out more rapidly. Dean's cock twitched and balls tightened, getting ready for release. He barely stopped himself from screaming in frustration. He didn't want this, he didn't want to be violated by a man nor pleasured by the demon who caused him so much suffering since he woke in Hell, but his body loved every second of it.

Finally, Dean reached an orgasm. To hold back a moan that threatened to escape his throat, he bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. Once cum stopped shooting from his erected cock and the demon pulled out his finger, Dean couldn't stop shame from filling his mind.

He just got off on Alastair pleasuring him.

Somehow, it was worse than any previous torture he was subjected to. When his bones were crushed, skin ripped off or flesh cut into pieces, there was pain, yes, but never before Dean felt guilt.

Fuck, he came on his torture's finger. And he _loved_ it.

No, his _body_ loved it, while his mind raged the entire time. But how that could be? His body was an extension of his mind, not a separate entity, and was suppose to follow its orders. Instead it begged for Alastair to keep going with every twitch of his cock, squeeze of muscles and quickened breath. And now Dean wanted to crawl into a deep, dark hole where nobody could find him and stay there, until the shame he felt went away.

Something cold and pointy pressed against his sore rim. Within a split second he realized what that was.

He _screamed_ when the knife sunk into him, slicing his muscles apart. He didn't ever register blood _bursting_ down his thighs and _splashing_ over the floor, because _pure_ _agony_ clouded everything else.

Then Alastair started _twisting_ the blade, _scraping_ chunks of flesh and ripping more screams from his victim's throat.

Dean pulled at the restrains, desperately trying to run away and he could _feel_ bones in his wrist _cracking_ under the pressure, muscles _tearing away_ on the stakes, but chains remained firmly locked around his limbs.

He didn't know how long the torture continued, but eventually he realized the blade was gone and he found himself dangling limply on the rack, sobbing in pain. With his head hanged low, Dean could see a large pool of blood and chunks of flesh laying below. He had no strength left to look away or at least close his eyes.

A white button-up appeared in Dean's field of vision, followed by chapped lips that kissed him on the mouth. “Beautiful...” he heard as a warm breath blew in his face, filling his nose with faint scent of sulfur.

 

***

 

He woke up suddenly.

Blinking the last remains of his sleep away, Dean laid on his back and stared at the dark ceiling above. For a moment he was confused by the fact he couldn’t see Sam leaning over him, but eventually it settled in that his younger brother wasn’t the one to bring him out of the dream.

Something was wrong, he had a feeling there was a pair of eyes staring at him. The hunter’s instinct kicked in and Dean moved his head up, pressing the chin against his chest, and looked around the room. As he studied every shadow and every corner of the room, Dean heard the pipes creaking under the walls. It almost sounded like the bunker itself was shifting around him, not paying any attention to two men inhabiting it and just going on with its own life. Maybe that was the sound that woke him up? Water rushing through the pipes or the building simply setting, which could be startling in the dead silence of night?

There didn’t seem to be anything inside the room, but Dean still had a feeling, just that _itch_ right under his skin, that a pair of eyes were following his movement. It wasn’t the first time his instinct told him to be wary and it rarely was wrong. In fact, it saved his ass more times than he cared to count.

Cautiously, Dean reached to the night stand, pulled a handgun he always kept hidden in a drawer and disarmed it. Ready to aim and shoot, he turned on the bedside lamp.

Yellow light chased away the darkness, exposing all hiding places in the room.

No face staring at him from under one of the walls, no sudden hiss or snarl. He was alone.

Before Dean gave out a sigh of relief, he shifted to the side of the mattress and leaned over the edge. Holding gun prepared, he carefully pulled the sheets up and peeked under the bed. Nothing, except for some dust bunnies. Dean flopped back on the bed and breathed out heavily in annoyance. What the fuck was going on with him lately? He was constantly dreaming about Hell and getting scared by his own shadow like a coward. Was it just the effect of him breaking under the pressure of hunting for almost his entire life? No, if that was the case, it would start more gradual, instead of dropping on him like a bomb precisely two weeks ago, after…

After he chose Cas.

Dean moved back on the bed and laid his head on the pillow, determined to catch some more sleep, but he realized that his bladder was about ready to burst. With a groan he tossed the duvet away and sit up. He quickly put the shoes on, tucked the laced to the sides instead of tying them and got up to leave the room.

It was cold and dark in the hallway. Shivering and cursing Men of Letter for the shitty heating system, Dean limped to the shared bathroom, sneakers patting against soles of his feet, while struggling to keep his balance. For some reason his legs were wobbly and he could almost swear the floor was shifting under him, slowly raising on one end and then the other to trip him, but it was probably just an effect of him waking up suddenly. Strange, because he never felt like this before. Years of hunting made him used to getting dragged out from sleep in the middle of the night.

Carefully putting one food ahead of the other, Dean reached the corner, turned right and entered the bathroom. Not wanting to be blinded by the brightness of the main lamps, he turned on the bulbs installed above the row of sinks that gave a soft light. He still had to blink to let his eyes get used to it, then he went to one of the toilet stalls and took a leak.

While Dean was washing his hands, he enjoyed the feeling of warm water heating up his cold fingers. He couldn’t wait to get back to his bed and bury in the sheets again.

However, he still couldn’t shake off the impression that something was wrong.

He looked above his shoulder and examined the rest of the bathroom. All three doors – one leading to the corridor, one to the toilet stalls and one to the showers – were shut and there were no hiding places in the room he was currently in. He looked in the mirror in front of him, a pair of wary eyes – which appeared brown instead of green due to poor lighting – stared back.

A ghost? No, it didn’t seemed so. Of course, Dean wouldn’t be able to find cold spots thanks to the awful heating system, but he didn’t notice any flickering lights. He might check with EMF meter—

Jesus, he was seriously loosing it. He found no sights of supernatural activity and yet wanted to search for it based on nothing more than just a gut feeling.

 _Get a grip, Winchester_ , he scolded himself and shut off the faucets.

On the way back to his room Dean, now more awake and alert of his surrounding, scanned the corridor in search for anything unusual, anything outside of the norm. The darkness hugged the walls, painting them in deep shades of black and grey, making it hard to make out details, but Dean spend his entire life in the darkness, hunting for things that most people were too afraid to even imagine. Darkness felt more like an old enemy, dangerous but familiar and until recently it didn’t bother the hunter much anymore.

Now, however, as he stepped closer to his room and his sneakers dragged against the floor with a shuffle, this foe seemed to be playing tricks on him with new, vicious intentions. Dean felt his heart speeding up in fear—

Then it stopped dead when the hunter realized someone’s footsteps were following him.

Impossible. Castiel said that protective sigils prevented any monster from entering the bunker and they were safe inside. It must be his imagination, that’s the only explanation.

Dean took a short step and waited.

Immediately a short shuffle came from behind.

Despite overwhelming coldness in the corridor, Dean felt sweat appear on his back and chest. He took a calming breath, reminding himself to stay focused. If there is a threat, he needs to… fuck, _calm down…_ he needs to evaluate the situation and eliminate the most plausible explanation before acting. After all he wasn't the only person residing in the bunker, so it might be that Sam also woke up with full bladder.

(He ignored a whisper at the back of his head that it wasn't Sam, because he wouldn't stay quiet if he saw Dean walking in the middle of the night and that he _knew_ who was really watching him, the same person who always stared at him from the darkness to make him quiver in fear. It was an absurd though anyway. Alastair was dead.)

Dean cleared his throat and said “Sam?”, his voice guttural from sleep.

Silence.

And another shuffle, this one closer.

Fuck, he needed to get back to his room for some weapon and equipment, but now whatever was following him knew he was aware of its presence. Should he bolt or play dumb? Eventually he decided to walk at normal speed as if he didn't notice anything, when he smelled it.

A scent of sulfur.

Playing dumb wouldn't work on a demon, so Dean spun around to face his opponent--

Except... there was nobody behind him.

Dumbfounded, the hunter searched around. It _couldn't_ be just his imagination, not with such _intense_ stench of sulfur that was attacking his nostrils. He coughed from the smell and covered his nose, but no matter where he looked, he didn't see any shape or shadow moving nearby. Cautiously scanning his surrounding, Dean scampered toward Sam's room. He managed to get to his destination without problems and pushed the door open so hard it slammed onto the wall. Sam jerked awake and looked at his older brother through curtain of hair covering his face.

“You have to get up” Dean announced.

Sam turned on his back, immediately more awake, and brushed the hair away from his eyes. “What's wrong?” he asked, turning the night lamp on.

“He gave a problem” Dean explained, checking the dark hallway for any movement, but it appeared nothing followed him. He also realized he couldn't smell the sulfur anymore. He turned back to Sam, who was getting out of bed. “There's a demon in the bunker.”


	3. Conversations With Demons

They’ve spent the rest of the night and most of the day that followed thoroughly searching every room and hallway inside the bunker for demonic presence.

First stop on their list was the library, where Sam picked up the plans of the building he came across shortly after they moved in. Of course, with access to such gigantic collection of old, dusty books the little nerd couldn’t help himself and immediately searched for the most interesting titles to read in his free time. Okay, Dean probably shouldn’t be mocking Sam for learning how to kill monsters, he understood that, but after the nasty wake-up call and with still lingering threat of getting killed by a demon, Dean wasn’t in a mood to act nice. That’s why, once Sam pulled the plans out and made sure he didn’t miss any, Dean gruffly ordered him to hurry up and dragged him to the kitchen. They gathered all packs of salt they could find, scanned the space for supernatural activity and then secured the entrance.

After that they methodically moved through the bunker, using the maps to locate each room and then mark it as safe. Dean was holding Ruby’s knife, ready to strike at the smallest movement, and used EMF meter to examine every area they visited, while Sam cut the places they deemed secure with salt. The bottles of holly water jingled in their pockets as they ventured deeper and deeper inside the bunker.

During those long, tense hours Dean and Sam discovered some extraordinary things, like a block of cells to incarcerate monsters caught for research by Men of Letters. That wouldn't be too surprising, if not for creatures' corpses still laying inside. From the look of it some of them died _recently_.

“They must have starved to death” Sam deducted, looking through a tiny cell window at one of the bodies.

Apparently after Abaddon's attack, Men of Letters didn't have any time to take care of the prisoners, who ended up locked here for months, years or decades as their bodies slowly ate themselves. Dean was hardly a fan of supernatural beings, but even he had to admit it was a horrific way to go. Thanks to Dad leaving him and Sam alone for weeks at time with limited money when they were kids, Dean was often forced to give up his food for his younger brother, so he knew what it meant to be truly hungry.

The view and stench of rotting corpses wasn't particularly shocking, Dean was used to it, but that manner of death… As he stared at the bodies, something caught his attention.

“No flies” he noted.

Sam immediately nodded in understanding. The bunker was so firmly secured that even little bugs couldn't get inside, so how a demon was able to sneak past all the protective sigils? Dean wouldn't trust Men of Letters to keep one of those demonic scums out (they failed at it once and it cost them lives), but Cas confirmed that this place was impenetrable.

Clearly, there had to be some breach in security their angel buddy missed, because hours long search turned out to be fruitless as they found no demon or even proves of demonic presence in the bunker. Whoever stalked Dean that night was able to freely enter and leave without sigils stopping their progress. It was the only explanation.

 

***

 

In the dead silence that filled the library black dress shoes tapped loudly against the floor boards as Cas wondered around, using his angelic mojo to reinvestigate the protective spells and sigils that stopped unwelcome guests from entering. Dean kept his eyes locked on the long table in front of him, listening to the footsteps. Unlike Sam he didn’t bother watching the angel, worried that it would cause him to lose temper and tell Cas exactly what he thought about him at the moment.

Yes, Dean made mistakes and misjudged situation during past hunts, so he wasn’t innocent himself. That was the only reason why he was sitting quietly right now, trying to control his anger.

If he didn’t woke up in the middle of the night, who knows what kind of damage that demon would have done…

The footsteps finally ceased and Cas’s gravelly voice announced: “I cannot explain how demon could sneak inside the bunker. All sigils are in perfect working order.”

Dean jerked his head up and glared at the angel, who looked guilty under his usual stiff appearance. Those barely slumped shoulders and inability to meet the Winchesters’ eyes were a dead giveaway. “Clearly, they aren’t!” Dean snapped, causing Cas to lower his gaze, yet another sigh of shame. In any other circumstances the hunter would feel a jab of regret, but he was too pissed off to care. “You said this place was impenetrable and yet here’s a demon waltzing in and out without a care in the world. How’s that possible when you gave your personal seal of approval to the security system?”

“It is possible they came up with some sort of spell—“

“Thanks, I figured that much. Doesn’t change the fact that according to _you_ this place was completely safe.”

Cas finally raised his eyes and looked directly at the older Winchester. Under the gaze of those blue eyes filled with pure remorse Dean almost lost his determination and apologized for being an asshole. No, he _won’t_ calm down so easily. Cas fucked up and needed to pay for it, if only by putting up with Dean’s bitchiness. Heck, Cas was the one who _insisted_ on taking full responsibility for his actions, so it’s not like he didn’t expect it.

“The problem is that not only sigils seems to be working, but I wasn’t able to sense any recent demonic presence in the bunker” Cas added.

“So what?” Dean sneered. “I’ve dreamed up all of it?”

“I am not claiming that. Perhaps you have encountered another creature and simply mistaken it for a demon.”

He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

 _Of course_ Dean might have mistaken another monster for a demon, because it's not like he was dealing with those hellish bastards since he was _four year old_ when one of them decided to murder his mother, then spent _decades_ being tortured and taught by one of them… No, he was clearly incompetent at his job and didn't know the difference between demons and every other scums crawling all over the Earth.

Sensing upcoming storm, Sam – with his elbows resting on the table and hands interwinded with each other – turned toward Cas and asked: “Are there creatures besides demons who leave smell of sulfur behind?”

“Not naturally” Cas admitted. “But some can make you believe you are scenting it.”

Sam bit his lips and pondered the answer for a moment. A sudden flash of understanding brightened his eyes. “Could they also cause nightmares?” he questioned.

“Sam!” Dean hissed.

Why the fuck was his brother bringing this up?! It had _nothing_ to do with demon sneaking inside the bunker and Cas didn’t have to know about that. Dean was more than capable of dealing with some bad dreams on his own, thank you very much!

“Dean, we need to accept the possibility that we’re dealing with something else” Sam insisted. His calm and patient tone only helped to fuel older Winchester’s anger. “If those nightmares are caused by a monster, Cas should hear about it.”

It sounded sensible, but Dean hated the idea of showing his weaknesses for everyone to investigate. He should be the one who helped people, not the other way around.

Taking Dean’s silence as an agreement, Sam once again addressed Cas: “About two weeks ago, shortly after we left Leavenworth to take care of haunted construction site, Dean started having recurring nightmares about his stay in Hell. They happen pretty much every night.”

Cas remained in professional mode when he looked at Dean, but there was a worry lurking deep in his eyes and the hunter couldn’t stand that, so he turned his head away. “Any other symptoms? Chest pains? Fatigue?”

“No” Dean responded in flat voice.

He could feel a disapproval emanating from Sam over the fact that he refused to cooperate and cry his heart at the smallest provocation, but he didn’t care. Sam wasn’t the one whom everyone around constantly tried to cuddle like he was a helpless toddler. For fuck’s sake, Dean was in his _thirties_ and he was more than capable of dealing with problem on _his own_. He didn’t need oversensitive brother and emotionally stunned angel to mother-hen him.

Besides, he figured by now what was the root of those nightmares.

His relationship with Cas.

This realization first dawned on Dean in the middle of the night, right after he was awaken by the demon, and he kept contemplating it for the rest of the day as he and Sam searched through the bunker. At first he found the idea ridiculous, but the more the thought about it, the more sense it made.

It wasn’t a secret that the forty years he spend in Hell changed him irreversibly. Most noticeably, Alastair managed to break through his morals and bring out the passion for inflicting pain, which was hidden so deeply inside the darkest parts of Dean’s mind that even Dean himself didn’t notice its existence until he started cutting into the souls of the damned. The feeling of blood seeping between his fingers and symphony of scream filling his ears were giving him pure pleasure, incomparable to anything else. He grew as a torturer under Alastair’s watchful eyes, learning how to tore bodies apart to cause the biggest amount of pain, something he wasn’t able to fully comprehend while he was on the racks and swirling in agony. Over ten years Alastair stopped viewing Dean as a promising student and called him one of the best tortures in history.

Of course, then the hunter was rescued from Hell and returned to his physical body. The reunion with both Sam and Bobby reminded Dean about all the morals he held for his entire life and the need to protect innocent people from monsters. However, it didn’t take long for Dean to realize that his desire for torturing other didn’t go away, instead it was boiling under his skin, waiting for the right time to resurface. In horror Dean tried to push those wants back to where they came from and pretend they didn’t exist, but that only worked halfway as instead he became a lot more callous toward in his behavior.

Like when he caught Sam for the first time using his supernatural powers to exorcise a demon out of some poor schmuck and threw a temper tantrum over it, even going as far as to tell Sam he should’ve _murdered_ that man instead. Or that time when Sam refused to avenge Jess by killing the demon responsible for her death, because he wanted to spare Tyson Brady and Dean spend a couple of days that followed bashing his brother’s decision. However, Sam insisted that dismissing Tyson’s entire life just for a short rush of satisfaction was a monstrous thing to do. During one of those arguments Sam looked him straight in the eyes and said “ _That’s what Dad have done with our lives. Do you think it was worth it?_ ”

At the time Dean just shook his head and went quiet, ending the conversation, but it got him thinking. About his entire life as a hunter, about everything he used to believe in… Eventually he realized how deeply Alastair’s influence cut into him and that despite his attempt at burying it, he was subconsciously allowing it to control his actions.

That is, until two weeks ago when he openly chose to give in and pursue his attraction to men, to Cas, which was carved into him by Alastair through decades of rape. Even back then a sane part of Dean’s mind _knew_ he’ll regret his decision, but he ignored it, thirsty for happiness of normal relationship. And yes, he got it, but he couldn’t shake off the doubts. What other urges awoken in him by Alastair will he accept in the future? With every day he felt the desires to torture, to cut bodies apart and listen to those delicious scream pushing at his resistance, demanding to be let out.

And he didn’t trust himself to resist.

Unfortunately, he couldn't explain those things to Sam and Cas. _Jesus_ , just the idea of doing it made Dean sick. How disappointed Sam and Cas would be if he told them the truth?

No, he won't allow it to _ever_ slip away. He won't allow either of them to discover what a monster he was. He'll rather kill himself before that happens.

So Dean looked at his brother with defiance, even though his heart was pounding in fear, and said: “All of this is just your speculations. If you two” he flicked his index finger between Sam and Cas “want to chase after phantoms, I won't stop you, but I'd rather focus on the trail we have right now and everything's points toward demons. So how it's going to be?”

He waited patiently as they analyzed his words, sitting comfortably in the chair, while panic whispered to his ear that they _know_ , they can _read_ his face like an open book.

It was ungodly amount of time before Sam finally broke the silence: “Actually, I think we should do both. Cas can search the bunker, while we take care of our current lead.”

Dean nodded. “Fine, let's do that.”

“We know that a demon might have sneaked into the bunker” Sam said, ignoring his brother's annoyed expression that this part of the story was _still_ thrown into question. “Now we only need to figure out who that was.”

“I believe his identity is obvious” Cas stated. He sounded angry, almost spitting the words out like they were disgusting food that was forced down his throat, which immediately let Dean figure out what he meant.

“Crowley.”

Sam snorted. “A scorned lover taking revenge?” he joked, causing Dean to huff in exasperation. When the fuck, according to his brother, did Crowley even counted as “ _lover_ ”? They _never_ dated and there were no chances of that _ever_ changing. Dean was about to clarify things, when Sam frowned and continued: “But… if he wants to get back at you, why would he only stalk you instead of attacking? What that accomplishes?”

“No idea” Dean shrugged. He pushed his chair away from the table, its legs scraping against the floor, and got up. “You can ask about that when we summon him.”

“I’m going with you” Cas offered.

 _More_ mother-henning. Dean snapped his mouth open to decline, but surprisingly Sam was the one to do it for him: “No, that won’t be necessary. I’d rather have you thoroughly check the bunker for any danger in the meantime. If Crowley tries anything, we’ll pray to you, okay?”

Cas seemed very uneasy about the whole plan as he looked toward Dean in silent pleading. Despite the annoyance at everyone trying to babysit him, Dean somewhat understood his boyfriend’s feelings. Not only were they planning to summon the King of Hell, but also someone who tried to take him away from Cas mere two weeks ago. Not that Crowley stood any chance, even if he wasn’t possessing a short, plump and balding middle-aged man. But okay, Dean was able to put himself in the angel’s shoes.

“Hey” Dean said, bringing the most charming smile he could muster. “We’ll be fine. It’s not our first time dealing with a demon, you know.”

Cas nodded, but Dean’s words didn’t do much to calm him down. “Be careful” he pleaded. Then, remembering that Sam _also_ exists, added: “Both of you.”

“Sure” Sam responded, smirking. “And you search the bunker for sighs of monsters and any breaches in security.”

“I will.”

The brothers headed to the storage room to collect necessary ingredients for summoning Crowley – which they agreed to do in abandoned building nearby instead of the bunker – and defensive equipment against demonic powers. While they moved through the hallways with tapping of their shoes and shuffling of their clothes echoing around them, Dean returned in his memories to the nightly visit. And that overwhelming sensation that he _knew_ who was stalking him, that it could’ve been only one person, the same person that promised to never let him go.

At the time this though was too horrifying for Dean to even allow it to form properly, but with bright lights over his head and Sam keeping him company, things were a lot clearer.

It couldn’t have been Alastair.

Alastair was dead.

(However, a small part of him insisted that he _knew better_ than to believe in such nonsense. That Alastair never truly went away and now managed to sneak back into his life, unnoticed and unbothered by protective sigils running through the foundation of the bunker. And that no matter how long Cas searched, he won’t find any sighs of another creature.)

 

***

Night once again took over by the time they finished preparing the warehouse for Crowley's interrogation. The building was small, consisting of only one floor and a single, large storage room, not counting employes' bathroom and manager's office, both currently hidden under debris from collapsed ceiling. Leaves, sticks and dirt covered the concrete floor. Carefully stepping around to not breach any of the signs (and to not end up in shit left here by wild animals), Dean reexamined their work. In Impala's headlight, which provided illumination from entry gate, his elongated shadow crawled on the floor behind him, mimicking all of his moves.

Obviously, he and Sam set up the devil’s trap for Crowley himself, so he won't escape before they're done with him, but also painted sigils over the walls to prevent other demons from coming to his rescue. And since Crowley could call the Hellhounds with a snap of his fingers, they also put down protective circles against them.

Everything appeared to be fine, but in case they screwed up, Cas was waiting for their prayer.

Dean straightened up, made sure Ruby’s knife was safely concealed inside his jacket's sleeve and looked at Sam. When his brother nodded, he started a match and threw it into the bowl in front of him. Blue flames immediately consumed the summoning ingredients and died down, leaving only a trail of smoke, which flew up and danced in the headlights, before disappearing as well.

“Squirrel.”

At the sound of this familiar voice with Scottish accent Dean grimaced instinctively. He still wasn’t ready to face the demon after their last conversation, but there was no backing out now.

Crowley was standing in the middle of the devil’s trap, wearing his usual tailor-made suit and shiny black shoes. His lips were spread in what probably was meant to come across as flirtatious smile, but missed the line by about ten thousand miles and instead brought to mind a shark inclosing on its victim. “What do I owe the pleasure?” Crowley asked, eyeing Dean up and down.

Oh, he thought Dean _changed his mind_ and wanted to take the position of King of Hell’s bitch. That’s why Crowley came running so eagerly with his tongue practically hanging to the floor. Was that his plan all along? To scare Dean and make him jump into his open arms despite earlier resistance? If so, then Crowley must be congratulating himself right about now. Fuck, Dean’s fingers just itched to sunk Ruby’s knife in the middle of demon’s smug face, but no reason to rush. There will be time for that once he makes sure no more danger awaits him and Sam after Crowley’s departure.

That’s when the demon noticed Sam standing to the side and his smile slowly faded away. “I assume you don’t have any _private_ matters to discuss” Crowley noted with displeasure and turned back to Dean, his look suddenly sharp and ready for the confrontation. He finally looked like true ruler of Hell.

Dean grinned. “No, I’m still not tempted by your ‘ _generous_ ’ offer” he assured. And to kick the bastard even more, he added: “I’m satisfied with my choice. Me and Cas are _very_ happy.”

“I’ll send you a honeymoon gift” Crowley deadpanned. “So” he moves his eyes between Dean and Sam “does _either_ of you care to elaborate why are you are determined to _waste my time_ or are we going to sneer at each other all night? In case you _forgot_ , I have _more_ _important_ issues at hand.”

“Unfortunately, you’re not going anywhere” Dean announced, pointing at the floor “so better stop bitching. We’ll keep you here as long as we like.”

Crowley lowered his gaze and examined the Winchester’s works. When he looked again at Dean, his expression remained calm like he _haven’t_ noticed a gigantic trap that prevented him from disappearing or protective circles against Hellhounds he could summon. This nonchalant act was pissing Dean off and it must’ve been a deliberate move on Crowley’s part. Was he hiding some trump card in his sleeve? No, he probably just wanted to intimidate the brothers and make them believe he provided a bigger challenge right now than he _actually_ was.

Still, Dean decided to keep his distance and beware of any tricks.

The sound of footsteps coming from the side caused Dean to jerk his head in that direction, his nerves still unrestful, but it was only Sam, who moved closer to him and Crowley. His shadow joined Dean's and Crowley's in Impala's headlights. “We want to know how you or one of your followers managed to sneak inside the bunker, past all the protective sigils” Sam demanded. To emphasize he wasn’t fucking around, he pulled out a bottle filled with holy water and took the lid off.

Aside from short glance, Crowley ignored the slushing liquid.

“What bunker?” he asked in bored tone.

“Drop the act” Dean demanded. “We know it was you.”

“Well, boys, if you saw me prancing around ‘ _the bunker_ ’ the other day, then I advise you to prepare some silver weapons. I’ve heard they work best on shape-shifters, because it sure as hell wasn’t me.”

“We didn’t saw you or anyone else, but we have a prove there was a demon inside.”

“Oh. And what was he _supposedly_ doing there?”

Dean could feel unpleasant warm of shame climbing up the back of his neck. Almost twenty four hours has passed since the nightly visit and he wasn’t so sure anymore what _exactly_ happened, but he raised his head in defiance, unwilling to let Crowley’s doubt (or Sam’s and Cas’s for that matter ) get to him. There _has_ been a demon in the bunker yesterday and he had to figure out what they wanted, before they sneak inside again to cause serious damages.

“He was stalking me” Dean specified.

Crowley’s mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. “But you _didn’t_ saw anyone, right?”

“I’ve smelled sulfur! And I’ve heard footsteps behind me! One of you, sons of bitches, were there!”

“Getting scared by _spooky_ _noises_ , Squirrel?”

Pure fury exploded in Dean’s heart, sending uncontrollable shivers down his body and limbs. Crowley’s mocking tone like he was speaking to a mentally challenged _cretin_ about the most obvious things in the universe, combined with _all_ the crap he put them through over the past five years and Dean being forced to endlessly relive Alastair’s torture _each night_ , was _the last straw_. How Crowley fucking _dared_ talked to him like that?!

In one smooth motion Dean ripped Ruby’s knife out of his sleeve and moved toward the demon, fully intending to cut that smugness from Crowley’s face, but a heavy hand on his shoulder stopped him on his track.

“Dean” Sam said calmly.

His _immediate_ though was to jerk away, punch Sam in the face for interrupting and continue going. However, as soon as that plan spawned in his mind, Dean paused and closed his eyes, unable to believe himself.

He wanted to _beat up_ his own brother for trying to keep him away from the King of Hell, who could have came prepared with an escape plan and only waited for their slip up to implement it. What the fuck was _wrong_ with him? When did he turn so _careless_ and allowed anger, instead of logic, to lead him? He needs to get his shit together, otherwise he’ll end up dead or – _worse_ – he’ll get Sam and Cas killed.

Struggling to control his shaking arms and urge to mutilate Crowley, Dean heard Sam say: “So you claim you didn’t send that demon after us. Could they be working on their own?”

“ _Of course_ they could” Crowley stated. “You think every ruler has a one-hundred-percent approval rate? Most demons are willing to follow my orders, due to my perfect leadership and organization skills they lack.” Crowley puffed his chest in pride, before his expression turned sour. “Unfortunately, not _everyone_ was happy when I took over.”

“How could they be against such brilliant leader?” Dean sneered.

Crowley didn’t show any irritation to the comment, instead he fixed his expensive, sewed-on-demand attire and brushed off non-existing dust from left sleeve, before speaking in response: “Face it, Squirrel. I have a far _greater_ importance in deciding this world’s fate than you and Moose. Both of you had a chance to play crucial roles during the Apocalypse, but you blew it and now you’re completely meaningless. You two are just _broken_ ” Crowley paused, allowing the last word to ring in the dead silence filling the warehouse “ _burned out_ ” another pause, during which Dean felt his fingers twitch on the handle of Ruby’s knife “heroes wanna-be. I wouldn’t be wasting time and resourced to simply harass someone as _worthless_ as you two.”

“Yeah?” Dean growled, raising the weapon in his hand and pointing it at Crowley. “How about I stab you and we’ll see if those nightly visits continue?”

“Are you willing to take that chance? To kill the King of Hell? You know what’s going to happen next, right?” Crowley waited a moment, allowing Dean and Sam to figure it out, but there was no need for it. They both already faced similar situation after Azazel’s death and Lucifer’s return to the cage. “It will create a vacuum of power that many demons would love to fill. You want to risk someone _far worse_ than me taking over the throne? Someone like Azazel? Or Lilith?” Crowley’s eyes zeroed on Dean’s face and he smiled beastly. “Or your old pal, Alastair?”

Dean couldn’t stop a flinch that shook his body at the sound of Alastair’s name. It was one thing to be constantly forced to relive those horrible memories from and another to have Crowley casually bring up his torturer. Even Sam, thought worried and obsessed with getting his brother to talk about feelings, never named the demon in past two weeks.

“Not to mention” Crowley continued “are you seriously considering murdering this _innocent_ man I’m currently possessing?”

Previous angered seeped out of Dean, leaving behind only shame. No, the right choice was to save the guy’s life by exorcising Crowley out and sending him back on racks, where all demons returned after being forcefully removed from their hosts.

However, that left the question in what mental state the man would be thanks to _years_ of being reduced to a meatsuit? While Dean was never possessed, it happened to Sam, who compared the whole ordeal to feeling like a puppet controlled by a puppeteer. You’re fully aware of what’s going on, but you have no power to stop it. The first few minutes proved particularly scary as Sam thought something was wrong with his body on biological level, since it wouldn’t react to his order, and he believed he wouldn’t be able to continue living on his own. Only further down the line he realized what was going on and then Meg started talking to him.

Now, Sam’s an experienced hunter and he can deal with supernatural world. To someone unaware of demon’s existence the whole ordeal is a lot more horrifying. Not to mention the violence they would witness. Years of such state might leave the man possessed by Crowley in state beyond help.

It was the demon’s laughter that broke Dean and Sam from their reflection.

“Okay, in all honesty you don’t have to worry about him” Crowley admitted. “I don’t like the idea of sharing body with anyone… I mean, imagine the _embarrassing_ things they could learn about me... so the moment I possessed this body, I send the original owner straight to Hell. Haven’t cared to check on him since then, but I assume he’s currently a demon too.”

That disgusting, self-satisfied smirk returned and Dean wanted to stab Crowley repeatedly until nothing was left of him, right here, right now, without care for any consequences. And he would to just that if Sam didn’t keep a firm grip on his shoulder, preventing him from moving. The tips of Sam’s fingers dug painfully into his flesh, revealing that the younger Winchester was also on the verge of losing it.

“Are we done?” Crowley asked calmly. It’s like he didn’t just give another prove on what a scumbag he was. “I have important matters to deal with in Hell, so if you could…” He pointed on the devil’s trap.

The idea of letting this _monster_ go was unbearable and Dean couldn’t force himself to move. Sam’s hand disappeared from his shoulder and soon he heard his brother shuffle around, followed by a scratching on the floor. When Crowley nodded in approval, Dean knew he was free. He tore his eyes away from the demon and looked at Sam, who straightened up, holding a knife and the bottle with holy water, his knuckled white from the pressure. Judging by the expression he was wearing, he just saw someone vomit in front of him.

“You know, it’s curious” Sam said to Crowley. “Two weeks ago you were practically rolling all over the ground and performing circus tricks to impress Dean, but now, after he chose Cas, you say you wouldn't waste time on him. Makes you think, doesn't it?”

Crowley's expression was absolutely priceless. Dean gave his brother a thumb up and together they turned to leave the warehouse…

“Say hello to Kevin and Linda from me!” the demon shouted from behind.

Before Dean had enough time to react, Sam spun of his foot and _smashed_ the bottle in his hand on Crowley's face.

Glass shards briefly danced and glimmered in Impala's headlights, then fell uselessly on the ground as ear-piercing _scream_ filled the forgotten building. Dean enjoyed the view of holy water _burning_ the demon's skin and white smoke _gushing_ from between Crowley's fingers he pressed against his face on reflex. Probably shouldn't have done that, because now his hands are also going to get injured.

“We'll try to keep it in mind” Sam taunted.

They walked to Impala, while the demon's shrieks slowly died down, and boarded in unison. Dean fastened his belt, started the engine and out of curiosity glanced through the front shield.

Crowley stood in the middle of the devil's trap, his face completely burned and decorated with glass shards, blood seeping from the wounds and streaming down his cheeks and jaw. He was _pissed_ and his eyes were in full demonic, red mode. Dean waved to him and turned to reverse his car. When he looked again, Crowley was gone.

“Guess that brings us back to the original idea” Sam summarized.

Dean didn't say anything back and only tightened his hands on the steering wheel, until his knuckles protested in pain, at the memory of original idea. And not the one Sam and Cas worked out, that a different monster who was causing his nightmares sneaked inside the bunker, but rather what he thought.

That Alastair—

“Hopefully Cas found something” Sam said.

However, when they got back to the bunker, Cas had troubling news. The thorough search didn't reveal any holes in security nor signs of another being. As far as he could tell, no supernatural creature – aside from him and the dead monsters in the cells – entered the bunker in decades.

What the fuck was going on?

 

***

 

In Hell time has no meaning. Hours and days melt into one, never-ending blur of pain and shame as the condemned souls are molded into new demons through tortures. Every memory from the earthly live, be it a good or bad one, loses its value and slowly fade away, overtaken by feeling of various instruments cutting the victim’s body over and over, and over again. And there’s nothing to distract them from the cruel fate.

At first Dean didn’t notice the subtle sadism of Alastair withholding the information about how much time he spend on the racks, too distracted by the blatant cruelty of having his body mutilated. He had no idea how long he managed resist Alastair’s offer to become his student. It could’ve been ten years or only one month. Was he showing immense strength by continuing to say “No” and proving to be the true son of John Winchester, the legendary hunter? Or was he doing about as well as anyone who ended up here? He _didn’t know_ and it drove him _insane_. If only Alastair told him how much time has passed, then he could take pride in his own resistance and reestablish his decision to keep refusing.

But there was nothing to latch onto. All Dean had was the knowledge that his tortures won’t end, until Alastair rips the answer he wanted from him. Thus more and more often, when he saw a new instrument in the demon’s hand, he wasn’t able to stop a pleading sob from slipping through his mouth: “please… don’t… stop…” The prideful hunter was long gone, replaced by a broken man who only wanted to be left in peace.

Alastair pressed the dull side of the hunting knife, perfect tool for gutting, against Dean's heaving chest and then tugged it down to soft his belly, making the hunter tremble in fear and painfully jerk at the shackles.

“I'm not forcing you to endure the torture” Alastair argued. “You know how to stop it. It's all in your hands, Pet.”

Previously, in what seemed like an eternity, Dean would spit out that he's not Alastair's pet, but he had no fight left; now there was only the endurance.

“i can't...” Dean choked out.

“Says who?” Alastair pulled the knife away and looked curiously at the hunter. “Who stops you from agreeing to become my student? Do you feel obligated to remain moral for your father, who deemed avenging his _dead_ wife more important than raising his two _living_ sons?”

No, he was wrong. It wasn't that simple. That night when Yellow-Eyed demon murdered Mom, all three of them had the existence of supernatural world with all its dangers brutally revealed to them. Dad was forced to raise him and Sam in the situation he wasn't prepared for, _no parent_ could be prepared for. Yes, sometimes he disappeared for days or even weeks at the time, leaving them alone in the motel room, to take care of dangerous hunts and _save lives_. When he was a kid, part of Dean resented Dad for doing it, for putting so much responsibility at his shoulder, for forcing him to _steal_ in order to keep food on the table. But as he grew older, he understood that Dad didn't do any of that out of carelessness. He simply wanted to prevent other people's life being destroyed by monsters.

“he did the best he could...” Dean insisted.

“I'm sure of it. After all, it's not like he left you and Sam without supervision for _weeks_ at the time, right? He always returned quickly from each hunt to make sure you're both alright.” There was a hint of smile on Alastair's face, when Dean didn't respond. “Oh, I guess he wasn't able to make it. But tell me…” The demon waved his hand in dismissive gesture. “Now, admittedly it was a long time since my last trip to the surface, so my knowledge about human world might be a little rusty, but the last time I've checked there was such device as ' _phone_ '. If your father couldn't get back to you, he did call regularly in the very least?”

Dean tried not to wince at the painful memories of listening to Sam's breathing steadily in his sleep and waiting hopelessly by the phone in their empty motel room, because Dad _promised_ to keep in contact and that _this time_ he will call.

He rarely kept that promise and every time Dean heard Dad's gruff voice in the receiver, he wanted to cry and beg him to return to them, because he was hungry and scared, and miserable, and didn't know if he could protect Sam… But he was a responsible son, just like Dad expected him to be, so he never voiced any of those thought and after a short, to-the-point conversation he could only go to sleep and cry into his pillow.

Everything he and Sam went through to ensure Yellow-Eyed demon paid for Mom's death… It _had to_ be worth something in the end, so for Alastair to just stand here and claim Dad didn't care enough about them…

No, he'll never believe in it.

“Or maybe” Alastair continued “you feel obligated by your brother? The same one you practically raised and who in gratitude abandoned you to play normal life?”

“He didn't abandon me!” Dean snapped with reignited passion, his voice horse from last torture. A full blown smile stretched Alastair's lips as if the demon was happy to discover there was still some defiance left to torture out of him, but Dean didn't care. He had to set things straight! “He abandoned the life of a hunter! He abandoned danger that comes with it! Sam loves me, you bastard!”

“In that case I'm sure at least _he_ called you on regular bases?”

Dean slumped down, barely noticing the pain in his wrists, unable to push a single word through the thickened throat. Sam didn't call him during his stay in Stanford, _not_ _once_. Sometimes on special occasions like Holidays he would sent impersonal message you can find ready on the internet, but he never responded to texts written by Dean. After awhile Dean stopped trying to stay in touch.

“Occasionally?” Alastair suggested in fake worried tone.

It was so unfair. While Dean was busy dealing with Dad’s rants and drinking problem, and hunting dangerous monsters all over the States, Sam lived a secure life with Jess by his side. Yes, that’s what Dean wanted for his younger brother – to stay safe – but he could’ve called once in awhile to make sure Dean was still alive. Instead he just left Dean behind like a snake would shed its skin once it grew too small.

 “i...” Dean faltered, speaking more to himself than Alastair. “i'm sure he had reasons...”

“He must've had. But, Pet...” The demon paused to gently slide the tips of his fingers across Dean's cheek. “Clearly, those reasons were more important to Sam than _you_.”

No, Alastair was wrong. Dad and Sam _loved_ him, but they weren’t able to show it properly due to difficult circumstances they were forced to live in by demons like Alastair who decided to ruin their lives for unspecified purposes. _That_ is the reason why Dad turned into harsh, distant man and left him and Sam alone in motel rooms for weeks at the time. Those hellish bastards are to blame.

Except…

Demons didn’t prevent Dad from calling every now and then to check on them. Similarly how they didn’t stop Sam. Both men made that choice freely.

Alastair removed his hand from Dean’s cheek and stared at him expectantly, smug satisfaction at winning the argument visible on his face. It was infuriating to see and what little fire remained inside Dean flared with new power, feeding his anger. While he didn’t believe in anything he’s heard about Dad and Sam – because it _couldn’t_ be true – he decided to bring the one person he was one-hundred-percent sure Alastair won’t be able to smear.

“bobby… bobby never hurt me…”

In response Alastair sneered. “You’re grasping at straws, Pet. But alright, let’s talk about Bobby.” He nonchalantly threw the knife he kept this whole time on the metal table, causing a loud bang and trashing the rest of torture tools. “He knew your father very well and frequently took care of you and Sam, while John was busy with far more important things than raising his own sons. I assume that Bobby was aware how John treated both of you. Did he ever try to do something about it?”

A spark of satisfaction appeared in Dean’s heart, because he finally was able to rebuff one of Alastair’s attacks. “Yes!” he assured. “He argued with Dad many times over it!”

“Is that all?” The demon grinned. “He _knew_ how poorly John treated you, but still allowed him to take you and Sam away each time? He _never_ proposed that you two could stay at his place?”

There was a long silence, disturbed only by the screams in the distance, as Dean went in his memories through every argument that erupted between Bobby and Dad on the subject. He’s never heard them in their entirety and most likely missed some that happened in privacy, but he couldn’t recall a single instance when Bobby asked Dad to let him and Sam stay in Sioux Falls. In fact _Sam_ was the one who shyly asked about the possibility during the ride in Impala after Dad picked them up from the older hunter’s place. To say that John Winchester lost his shit would be an understatement. He screamed at Sam, bringing the boys to the verge of tears and banned him from bringing it up ever again.

Although Dean didn’t speak a word in Sam’s defense, once Dad went quiet and focused on driving, he squeezed his brother’s hand in support. He understood that request well.

Those rare visits to Sioux Falls gave them some of their happiest childhood memories. While Bobby possessed the same gruff exterior as Dad and barely said anything nice, he always took good care of the boys. He kept them safe from everyday and supernatural dangers; spend a lot time talking with them, telling anecdotes about his own and other hunter's experiences; made sure to feed them well, even going out of his way to cook more healthy and varies food than he did just for himself and while he wasn't a great chief, to Dean every dish tasted heavenly, because he could eat without worry that there won't be enough left for tomorrow.

One time Sam was scared to fall asleep, because he was convinced a monster was lurking outside their bedroom. After Bobby heard that, he started bitching how his house is completely safe and nothing would be able to sneak inside without his knowledge, while painting additional protective sigils over the walls and ceiling to comfort Sam.

And they were happy at Bobby's, more than they were at Father Jim's place or any other person's Dad sometimes dropped them at. Despite that Dean never thought that Bobby should feel any obligation to take care of him and Sam, because…

They weren't his kids. They weren't his responsibility.

Was that how Bobby saw the entire situation? Occasionally he was given a babysitting job over two children he liked, but didn’t want to deal with in a long run? Was that the reason he never – to Dean’s knowledge – offered Dad to look after him and Sam on permanent base?

Alastair spoke again in snickering tone; his voice sounded to Dean like a hissing of a snake: “A sad story of Dean Winchester’s life: starved for affection, desperately clinging to people who don’t want nor need him and even under the cruelest of tortures he’s struggling to remain true to the moral those people taught him. Why, I would cry over his fate if I had any tears left to shed.”

For the first time since he ended up here, Dean raised his head, wincing at soreness in his neck, and _really_ looked at Alastair. The Grand Torturer of Hell wore a satisfied smirk, gaining pleasure from his victim’s suffering. And yet, despite running this place and being the designer behind most of the torture tools, including those horrific cuffs, at some point in the past he also was in Dean’s situation: helpless and scared, strapped to the racks, torn apart again and again and again by cruel demon, until he turned into the monster he was today.

It was a startling realization. Yes, Dean knew how demons were created, but between the excruciating pain and the pure hatred he felt for his tormentor, he never thought about Alastair in that way.

Why was he send to Hell? Did he earn his rightful place down here through bad deeds? Or did he also made a deal with crossroad demon to safe a loved one?

“how… how _you_ ended up in hell?...”

Judging by Alastair’s reaction nobody ever asked him that question. He flopped his mouth open and close a couple of times, before regaining composure.

“I’m _flattered_ that you want to learn more about me, Pet” he commented, showing his teeth in predatory smile “but I don’t think my previous life currently matters. Now, that we’re done talking” Alastair turned to the table and brushed his fingers over various tools, sharp and shiny “how about we proceed with the scheduled activities?”

As on command memories of pain from previous tortures, creeping just under Dean’s skin, returned. He couldn’t… he wanted it to _fucking stop_ …

“ _Unless_ …”

The word sounded loud like a gunshot and Dean jerked his head upwards, wincing briefly at the pain in his limbs, with new hope building in his heart. Alastair watched him, playing with his beard and contemplating something. If he wanted to make an offer to delay the torture, Dean’ll take it, regardless of what it was.

Neither said anything for a full minute, the silence broken only by the screams of the damned surrounding them. When Alastair’s lip stretched in a smirk, Dean felt his heart drop.

“Since you were so nice to me, asking personal question about my background, I’ll make you an offer. Don’t worry, it’s not the same offer as usual, so you can keep clinging to your morals for now.” Alastair moved closer, his dress shoes tapping against the concrete floor, and stopped right in front of Dean, their chest almost meeting. A faint scent of sulfur filled the air. “Instead of us going straight to torturing, you could put that beautiful mouth of yours to good use” Alastair pinched Dean’s lower lip, then leaned closer and whispered straight into his ear “and give me a blowjob.”

Dean felt his stomach turning and bile of disgust raising to his throat. He closed his eyes and swallowed, struggling to stop himself from vomiting. Just the idea of kneeling in front of Alastair with his erected cock out—

It was _disgusting_. Dean _hated_ the demon for making that offer, but he hated _himself_ even more for wanting to take it. Everything to delay the torture.

“i’ll do it…”

“Are you sure?” Alastair’s voice was full of fake concern. “I don’t want to _force you_.”

“y-yes, i’m sure…”

Alastair nodded. “In that case...”

Suddenly, the chains let go and Dean _crushed_ onto the concrete floor. While it hurt, the fall wasn't anywhere near as bad as the torture he survived thus far, so the hunter gritted his teeth and tried to stand up, but the moment he pressed the palm of one hand against the surface, more pain jolted up his body. Although he was freed from the rack, the cuffs with stakes piercing his flesh were still firmly locked in place.

 _Son of a bitch_!, Dean cursed internally.

Breathing deeply and waiting for the pulsating pain to subdue, he searched around. Alastair was a couple of steps away from him, sitting comfortably in a chair, his legs spread apart and a large bulge visible--

Dean winced and looked away as a new wave of nausea hit his stomach.

Clearly, there was no point in asking Alastair to remove the cuffs – sick bastard was _getting off_ on his pain – so the hunter carefully lifted himself from the ground, only causing marginal pain to his limbs and slowly crawled toward the chair, using his knees and elbows for movement. It was uncomfortable and physically straining position that made his muscles _scream_ in protest. By the time Dean stopped and knelt before the demon, he was covered in cold sweat. A small droplet hanged on the tip of his nose as he waited for further instructions like an obedient dog.

Without uttering a single word, Alastair leisurely unzipped his pants and pulled his cock out. It was thick with blue veins clearly visible under the skin and red head wet at the tip—

Dean had to shut his eyes to not throw up at the sight, but he could still feel the heat and the smell of sweat coming from the erection dangling right in front of his face, ready for him to take it into his mouth. _Jesus Christ_ , how did he end up in this situation? He only wished for Sam to be alive again. He knew there was a price to pay, nothing comes free in life, but…

 _Calm down_ , he thought. _You can do it. Just… just shut your brain off and get going._

After another calming breath, Dean opened his mouth and swallowed the cock down, earning a sigh of relief from his tormentor.

It was _disgusting_ , worse than he expected. Alastair’s erection laid on his tongue, twitching with silent demand for proper attention and leaking salty, _nasty_ pre-cum everywhere. Dean just sat there frozen in place, afraid that any motion will make him gag and vomit. When fingers combed through his hair, he looked up and jerked in shock. Alastair’s pupils were gone and his eyes turned entirely white. Fuck, Dean has never seen him in such state. It was such a startling remained that he wasn’t dealing with some psycho, but an immortal, powerful demon.

The Grand Torturer himself.

“No need to rush, Pet” Alastair assured. “Take your time. We have an eternity to play.”

Dean shut his eyes again and finally started bobbing his head up and down in shallow movements, struggling to figure out how to give a proper blowjob. While he was on the receiving end a lot, _this_ was a very different experience. His jaw quickly turned sore, spit was leaking down his chin and knees hurt from kneeling for such extended period of time. Not to mention the taste… Dean had to fight against the urge to finish as fast as possible and pull that fleshy, vile _thing_ out of his mouth, knowing that it would mean return to the racks.

“Look at yourself” Alastair’s satisfied voice reached Dean as the demon’s fingers kept brushing through his hair. “A prideful, fearless hunter who once spit in my face reduced to a cheap whore, eagerly sucking my cock. If there’s a more beautiful view in the world, I have yet to see it.”

A large lump appeared in Dean’s throat and his eyes stung. He blinked rapidly, trying to prevent the tears from filling his eyes. _Don’t cry. Not here, not where that bastard can see and make fun of you_. However, it was in vain as the drops soon run down his cheeks.

“Something’s wrong, Dean? I though this is what you wanted? Eternity in Hell for Sam’s life. You made the deal in your free will and you _knew_ what awaits you here.”

No, he didn’t.

Sometimes, during the year that followed after Sam’s resurrection, Dean would spend a sleepless night, laying on his side and staring at his brother snoring on the other bed, reassuring himself that he made the correct choice and imagining the type of tortures that awaited him in Hell. But even his most horrifying fantasies paled in comparison to reality. No, he wasn’t prepared, he _couldn’t_ possibly prepare for Alastair and everything he did to him.

Working through his revulsion, Dean kept sucking on the cock. He heard as the demon's breathing quickened and moans became more guttural.

“Don't worry, Pet...” Alastair murmured. “Your father, Sam and Bobby might've not cared about you, but I'll never leave you behind...” Those words sounded more like a treat in Dean's mind and he once again stared into the demon's white eyes. “You're my masterpiece, Dean… While working on you I've went above and beyond all my achievements from the pasts…” Alastair gritted his teeth and gripped the hunter's head in steel grasp. “I'll _never_ leave you alone...”

The demon threw his head back, shoving his cock all the way down Dean’s throat, chocking the hunter in the process. As the load of cum that tasted faintly of sulfur shot inside his mouth, Dean realized that he believed in that promise.

No matter where he goes and no matter how much time passes, Alastair will forever remain part of his life.

 

***

 

He jolted awake, covered in sweat and gasping for air. The dump duvet was tangled tightly around his chest, preventing him from breathing openly, and he started kicking on reflex to break free. Once the material landed on the floor, Dean laid down on the bed and rubbed his face with palms of his shaking hands, the flashes of his nightmare – no, it wasn’t _just_ a nightmare, it _really_ happened – dancing behind his closed eyelids.

The taste of cum still lingered on his tongue. He took few calming breaths, but it didn’t help and soon his stomach turned, and saliva filled his mouth…

Dean barely had enough time to jump up on his feet and stumble to the trashcan in the corner of the room, before violent contractions shook his body and the half-digested chunks of the dinner escaped from his throat, splattering on the plastic bottom with sickening sound. When he had nothing left to throw up, he stood there with his head hanging above the trashcan, heaving dryly. The lingering taste of cum and sulfur was replaced by acid's, making Dean sick again.

 _Fuck_ … He hoped the nightmares would eventually go away, but they were only getting more and more vivid. This time around he could swear he really was back in the Pit with Alastair’s cock—

Another contraction squished Dean’s stomach, but he only managed to produce some saliva that he spit into the trashcan. He closed his eyelids and pressed forehead against the wall, savoring in its coolness.

Two weeks of being forced to relive the tortures he experienced in Hell, two weeks of being forced to see the demon who left irremovable scars on his psyche… It was too fucking much. Dean was about to reach his limits and he didn’t know what to do. He finally connected the dots – though part of him probably knew the truth for a long time – and realized the nightmares were trigger by him entering the relationship with Cas, when he allowed Alastair to control his life again.

( _I knew you’d enjoy it._ )

But what he could do about it? Grit his teeth and wait for the dreams to end? Yeah, because that worked out _so well_ thus far. Only one solution came to him and Dean _refused_ to acknowledge it, even in privacy of his own mind. He was freaking content with his life for a change and he won’t give it up so easily.

Maybe… maybe if he got some _goddamned_ sleep, he’d be able to think clearly and figure out a better plan?

Pushing away from the wall and the trashcan full of his vomits (he’ll clean it in the morning), Dean decided he had no chance for a decent shut-eye without getting smashed. There was a mostly untouched bottle of vodka in the fridge he bought two days ago after the hunt for Wakwak and neither of the Winchesters touched it since, too distracted by the possible demonic activity in the bunker. Even getting into account Dean’s alcohol resistance that he build over his lifetime, it would work wonderfully for knocking him out.

This night he didn't bother putting his shoes on and barely noticed how cold the floors were in the hallways as he wandered toward the kitchen. As always the silence around him was overwhelming and brought to mind countless hunts when a monster was lurking at him in the shadows, readying for attack, and only good reflexes combined with blind luck assured Dean's survival. Now, dressed in only t-shirt and a pair of boxers, he felt helpless and vulnerable. If anything attacked him at this precise moment—

_Stop. There is no creature stalking you in the bunker. Cas found nothing, remember?_

Unfortunately, the sensation that something dangerous is nearby returned and Dean stomped carefully, moving his eyes between each side of the corridor and examining every dark place on his way to the kitchen. He knew it was ridiculous. If anything tried to hide inside the bunker, Cas would either find it or the blind spot where magic clocked the creature from being seen. And yet Dean wasn't able to ignore the feeling in his guts, the same one that saves his ass in the past.

 _Something_ was wrong.

He slowed down practically to a crawl, carefully scanning his surroundings. Was the hallway leading to the kitchen always so long? He could swear there were additional doors on each side, like the bunker grew and stretched its length without him or Sam noticing.

A bitter laughter escaped Dean's mouth. Yes, a self-expanding building, the newest and most dangerous creature they faced thus far. Lack of sleep finally caught on with him and now he was losing—

_Schlik._

Dean froze in place, a cold fear paralyzing his entire body in an instance.

_Schlik._

No… no, this is impossible.

_Schlik._

Standing in the middle of the hallway, Dean saw the kitchen light shinning from around the corner. He didn't know what to do as his brain randomly shut down like someone flipped the off switch. While his heart sped up and sweat started collecting on his skin, Dean waited for another sound of knife sliding against the sharpening stone. The same sound that was cut into his mind over the decades in Hell. And there was no mistaking who produced it, who was moving the blade in such slow, methodical motion of an artist preparing to create his masterpiece. Dean waited patiently, but the noise didn't repeat.

Instead a shadow broke the light coming from around the corner, when its owner left the kitchen.

Finally snapping from the numbness, Dean dashed down the hallway. After taking the turn, he didn't see anyone in the dark hallway, so he entered the brightened room and—

A single knife laid on the table. It wasn't possible from the look itself, but Dean knew it was newly sharpened and ready to cut into flesh. He stood in the threshold, captivated by the sight, while a faint scent of sulfur hanged in the air.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I've redconned Tyson Brady's fate. I've found the scene where Sam kills Brady along with the demon who possessed him to be one of the worst scene in entire show and one that seriously damaged Sam's character in my opinion. Not only Sam murdered Brady in cold blood for some petty revenge when he could've easily exorcised him, the writers clearly intended it to be a Crowning Moment of Awesome for him. In general it sometimes disturbes me how callous the writers and the heroes are toward people possessed by demons. I understand that in the heat of a battle Dean and Sam might be forced to kill them to survive, but Brady was alone, confined and easy to deal with. Yet Sam still murdered him and we were suppose to cheer him on.
> 
> Also I planned to reveal what happened to the original owner of Crowley's body back in the fourth chapter of "There Something About Dean". I've never wrote it, but in case you're wondering the conversation was suppose to go more or less like this:
> 
> DEAN: You're such a generous guy, particularly to the man you're possessing.  
> CROWLEY: Oh, he's not here anymore. The moment I took over his body, I've sent him straight to (notices Dean's angered expression), uh, to Heaven of course, because he was a good man and didn't deserve to be tortured in Hell.  
> CASTIEL: You're lying.  
> CROWLEY: Nobody asked for your bloody opinion!


	4. Lost in the Darkness

The building was abandoned and empty, just like all those years ago when Dean entered it for the first and only time. However, even in the limited glow provided by the flashlight some changes immediately jumped out: decrepit and cracked walls, shattered windows, strong stench of piss. On the ground near the entrance were beddings made out of rotten newspaper pages and dirty rags, currently unoccupied and probably deserted for a couple of weeks. Did something scare away people who sought shelter here…?

Squeezing the handle of his handgun for reassurance, Dean moved away from the main door and wandered down the old warehouse, another one he visited in two days. The sound of his footsteps bounced from the walls and echoed around, making it harder to notice potential danger and making Dean even more uneasy. 

Dirt and sand that collected on the ground over the years crunched under his shoes as Dean slowly found his way to the metal, rusty stairs leading to the second floor. He shined the flashlight upwards and noticed a pair of doors on the left with small windows in them, and a corridor on the right leading straight ahead. Was this the way? He didn’t know. This was his first trip through the building, before he was simply zapped into the correct room or moved by others while unconscious. If only Sam was here, he could guide him to correct place, but Dean _needed_ to do this alone.  That's why yesterday after walking up his brother and warning him about the demon possibly lurking inside the bunker, Dean ignored all demands for explanation and jumped into Impala. He drove like in trance and arrived at his destination in the early afternoon, but it took him several more hours to find enough courage and by then sun has already hid behind the horizon. He shouldn’t have waited so long, because now he was stuck in the darkness again, trying to face his fears.

Talking his chance, Dean started ascending the old stairs, which produced loud thumping noise no matter how cautiously he planted his feet. If someone’s nearby, they’re already warned to his presence. Not much of a problem with homeless people, even aggressive ones, but any monster would gain a serious advantage. Dean made sure that the safety lock  on his gun  was off and kept climbing.

Up the stairs and down the hallway, he continued his journey as heart pounded in his chest. Eventually he found what he was searching for: an inconspicuous room with a long table set in the middle and another door on the opposite side from the entrance. There was a series of lamps hanging from the ceiling, but while they worked fine a couple of years ago, this time the light switch only clicked uselessly when the hunter  flipped it . Although Dean didn’t expect the old  warehouse to still have power, he grunted in displeasure. It would be nice if every now and then  _something_ went to his liking.

Having no other option, Dean crossed the room with flashlight as his only source of illumination. He tried to ignore the fact that said light was shaking a little and wouldn’t stop no matter how hard he steeled his hands.

There was a small window in the other door, currently covered in thick layer of dirt that prevented Dean from looking inside. He had to wipe it with his sleeve, before he could make out anything. Despite the fact that he knew what he'd see, it knocked the air  out  from his lungs regardless.

Under the opposite wall stood a large, metal contraption engraves with Enochian symbols. In sharp contrast to everything else in the warehouse it appeared new and unaffected by aging process, if a bit dirty, proving durability of angelic creations. However, the protective circle on the ground that failed to do its job was gone. Did someone removed it or was it erased by time? Dean shook his head, abandoning that pointless though, and searched around the room, but the small window didn't give him a good enough viewpoint. Sighing with frustration, he grabbed the kno b and pulled. The door were jammed, so it took him a couple of seconds to yank it open. When he unlocked the room, an old stench of decay filled his nose.

He walked inside, leading the way with his  g un and searching the floor with flashlight. According to Sam's story,  _he_ should be somewhere—

A brief flash of bones in the corner caused Dean to jerk away.

_Stop being such a coward_ , he chastised himself. He breathed evenly, forcing his heart to slow down to a reasonable pace, but pulse continued pounding in his ears. The knowledge that he was standing only few feet away from the demon who tortured him to thirty years overwhelmed his senses. Once Dean though he'd be able to make it without having another panic attack, he moved to the corner, where the body laid.

All that remained of the Grand Torturer, once powerful demon who conspired to start the Apocalypse and irreversibly broke Dean's spirit, was a pile of bones and scraps of clothes.

Except no, this  _wasn’t_ Alastair, but the unlucky mortician he possessed to go about breaking one of the seals. The man who bore uncanny resemblance to the demon’s appearance in Hell, down to the button-up shirt, dress pants and new, shiny shoes. Sometimes Dean wondered if Alastair haven’t chosen him specifically for this reason to freak Dean out, rather than the mortician being the first human at hand.

Of course, the poor bastard must’ve been conscious the entire time, scared and unable to break free, with Alastair mocking him and promising him far worse fate once the demon didn’t need to highjack his body anymore; and to experience the torture Dean inflicted on both of them.

Hopefully, after all this suffering the man found peace in afterlife.

Okay, enough with the bleeding heart bullshit. What happened, happened and cannot be undone, so there’s no point in wasting time to mope about it.

Dean kne lt down on the cold floor, pulled out the EMF meter out of his jacket’s pocket and carefully scanned the skeleton. Seconds passed as he moved the device up and down, expecting the alarm to went off at any moment. He kept his eyes locked on the body and muscles tense, ready to make a dodge-roll maneuver if the situation calls for it.

Turned out it wasn’t necessary, because the meter remained dark and silent in his hand, indicating that no supernatural being resided inside the mortician’s  corpse . Immediately Dean felt his body deflate like air out of a pierced balloon. He sat on the heels of his feet and closed his eyes. It was ridicules. He left Sam completely alone in the bunker and drove for hours across the States to find nothing. And there was no reason to expect anything anyway. Even if Alastair miraculously survived Sam’s attack, he wouldn’t have stuck around in now useless  corpse . What else he expected?

In all h onesty, he had no expectations. He didn’t even think when he jumped into Impala and passed mile after mile, focusing his entire attention on the overpowering need to come here, to check  _personally_ that Alastair was indeed gone. And what this stupid plan born from impulse brought him in the end? Just a wasted time.

Sam and Cas were probably right. Another creature must’ve had sneaked inside the bunker and things he thought he saw each night were just a figment of his imagination.

Shaking head at his own stupidity, Dean packed the EMF meter and stood up, making sure to brush off dirt that stuck to his jeans. He spared one last look at the corpse on the ground, noting the empty sockets that appeared black even in the flashlight and jaw still wide  open in silent scream, before he turned on his heel and left, closing the door behind.

Much like the torture room, this area with a long table in the center brought some painful memories. Dean slid his fingers alongside the once smooth wood, now covered in maze of cracks and splinters, letting his thoughts wander back to the time when Cas asked him to embrace his cruel practices from Hell and rip the information angels’ need ed from Alastair. He remembered how ashamed Cas was then, even admitting that he wouldn’t bring Dean here if he knew anyone else for the job. Clearly, he believed that Dean was disgusted with this request and  had no desire to torture another sole  ever  again. What would Cas say if he learned the truth?

Dean clenched his jaw, until it hurt, because he knew the answer. No matter how much Cas loved him, he wouldn’t stay together with a monster. One more reason to make sure he and Sam never find out.

A sudden blast of alarm startled Dean.

After a brief confusion it dawned on him the sound was coming from his pocket, so he took out the EMF meter and stared at the colorful lights shining right under his nose, indicating presence of supernatural creature nearby. Dean readied the weapon, knowing that it might not be very helpful, and straightened his arm out to aim the device toward the exit door. When the signal became weaker in that direction, he spun around and checked the other side. Same result:  t he alarm was weaker. Was it broken? Dean pulled the meter in  to check for any damages and  suddenly  the signal picked up again.

What the…?

Knitting his eyebrows, Dean extended his arm once more, paying only half attention to the potential danger lurking around, and the meter promptly calmed down. When he brought it back closer, the alarm became stronger.

Was this goddamned thing reacting to  _him_ ? 

Did some malevolent spirit attach itself to Dean?  Was that the explanation behind strange events from two previous nights?

Ghost generally stuck to specific locations or objects. Haunting of individual people were rare, but Dean have seen such case years ago, when Sam studied at Stanford and he worked only with Dad: there was a young woman whose husband died in a car accident, only to return to protect her from beyond the grave. Unfortunately, he deemed merely  _mean_ people to be a threat and w ent on a murderous rampage, until Dean and John burned his remains.

No, that didn’t make any sense. Although ghost would be able to produce the sound of footsteps and make Dean smell sulfur, the question remained how  it managed to follow him inside and outside the bunker without protective sigils stopping it. Men of Letters might’ve been a bunch of snobbish morons, but even they wouldn’t forget to secure the place against such commonly encountered supernatural being.

The more sensible explanation was that the EMF meter broke down and couldn’t give a proper reading. Dean’ll have to look into it after he gets back to the bunker.

With a tired sight, he turned the device off and slid it back into his pocket. He was about to resume walking, when the flashlight flickered briefly. This was a lot more worrisome. Dean froze in place and tried to determine if there was a sudden temperature drop near him, but the abandoned warehouse with its broken windows was full of chilly night air, so he couldn’t tell. Best to get out of here and return later, maybe bring Sam along as a backup.

As he stood in place, planning his future moves, a muffled shuffle reached him.

It was coming from the torture room.

Dean’s eyes zeroed on the closed door. The sound was familiar and he’s heard it numerous times during past hunts: a corpse being dragged on the floor with its motionless limbs scraping against the ground. But this time there was another noise. Dean could feel his blood freeze in the veins as he listened to scratching of bony fingers struggling to catch onto something on the way to the exit.

Flashlight jerked around on the locked door. Dean wasn’t able to make it stay still, wasn’t able to move a single muscle or create a coherent thought. Instead he stood in place and stared at the small window, knowing that at any moment he’ll see a skull with empty sockets and jaw open in endless scream leaning against the dirty glass. His heart skipped a beat and then started pounding rapidly to make up for it, when a breeze blew in face, carrying a faint “ _Peeeeeeet_ ” said in  nasal , mocking voice. This snapped him out of the paralysis.

“I’m not you fucking pet…” he choked out, unsure if he was speaking to the monster or to himself.

He squeezed the gun harder and aimed it at the door, ready to shoot. He wasn’t sure if bullets will help him. At this point Dean wasn’t sure of anything, even what he saw or heard, stuck alone in the dark room, waiting for his worst nightmare to make its way to the door separating them and keep its promise.

( _I’ll_ never _leave you alone._ )

The shuffling and clawing continued for what seemed like hours, slowly advancing forward, until it came from right behind the closed door. Then both sounds ceased.

Only pulse pumping in Dean’s ears and low rattling of the gun in his shaking hand broke the overwhelming silence. He could feel droplets of cold sweat streaming down his forehead and threatening to fall into his eyes, but he didn’t dare to wipe them out. Not this time.

Finally, the doorknob started turning.

Dean spun around and bolted to the opposite door so fast the muscles in his legs screamed in protest. Down the metal stairs and through the dark warehouse he run to the main exit, his heavy breathing  being the only noise that followed him outside. He ignored the freezing lashes of the wind that hit his face or pain from physical strain, determined to put as much space between himself and Alastair. Because at this moment all he could think about was the Grand Torturer of Hell somehow managed to survive Sam’s attack and returned to punish the former student for his betrayal.

Impala was parked just outside the warehouse. Dean jumped inside, kick-started the engine and bolted without even bothering to fasten his seatbelt. The loud engine almost managed to drown out the desperate pounding of Dean’s heart as he drove into the night, crushing the steering wheel in his hand.

They were all in serious troubles. If Alastair indeed returned and wanted revenge – and Dean had no doubts he would – it will be impossible to hide away from him forever. Sooner or later the demon will put a trap for the Winchesters and they  _will_ go to meet with him, because they couldn’t allow such dangerous monster to roam free. But they had no chance at defeating him. Sam no longer possessed demonic powers, because God  has  clean ed his blood completely after he accidentally released Lucifer. Castiel’s powers didn’t work on Alastair and Ruby’s knife was useless as well. So what was left? To exorcise Alastair and send him back on the racks?

Dean looked in the rearview mirror to check if something follow him—

The wheels  _squealed_ on asphalt when he slammed the brakes. 

No, this is impossible… He must be seeing wrong due to how dark it is…

However, after he turned the overhead light on, nothing changed. Dean sit with hands frozen on steering wheeling, staring at his reflection in the mirror and it stared back at him with a pair of black, demonic eyes.

  


***

  


Alastair was gone.

Right after their last session, during which Dean gave him a blowjob, he chained the hunter to the rack and disappeared into the darkness, claiming to have important matters to take care of in other parts of Hell. This time he didn’t even bother healing his victim, so Dean hanged helplessly in the air, feeling sourness in the back of his throat from when the cock was violently rammed in and disgusting taste of cum on his tongue. At first he treasured every second that Alastair was away. Despite stakes piercing his limbs, he was able to rest and regain willpower to keep saying  ' _no_ ' .

But eventually it became obvious that Alastair wasn’t coming back fast and Dean found himself completely alone, naked and surrounded by impenetrable darkness, with screams in the distance providing his only human interaction over this agonizingly long period of time. There was  _nothing_ to distract him from the vicious thoughts corrupting his mind.

About Dad who preferred to travel around the country in search for clues that would lead him to M om ’s murderer, rather than taking care of his two sons; who flipped whenever Dean or Sam  _dared_ to criticize his poor parenting skills, accusing both boys that they didn’t love their mother and  _they_ were turning on their own family. He never saw the irony in his words and to his last dying breath believed to be in the right.

About Sam who abandoned Dean and moved to Stanford to live safely; who never bothered to call to make sure his brother wasn’t killed during a hunt and yet continued to act like an ungrateful brat after they reunited.

About Bobby who couldn’t make an effort to stop Dad’s abusive behavior, based solely on the fact that Sam and Dean weren’t his kids and thus  not  his problem.

Each of them betraying Dean over and over again, but expecting him to be there for them like an obedient dog that always returns to its abusive master. A memory of Alastair’s sneering voice echoed in his mind (“ _A sad story of Dean Winchester’s life: starved for affection, desperately clinging to people who don’t want nor need him_ ”) and despite all the hatred he felt for the demon, Dean finally accepted that he was correct. Dad, Sam, Bobby… They only cared about themselves and viewed Dean as a tool to use. Flames of anger awoke inside his stomach and slowly climbed upwards to his heart, burning a trail of desire to hurt each of them the same way they hurt him. No,  _worse_ . 

While John was out of reach, Sam and Bobby were an easy target. He could trick them into making a deal with crossroad demon or somehow drag them to Hell himself, then he’d chain them to the racks and take his time slowly cutting both into pieces,  _over and over again_ . Once he was done with them, he’d… he’d…

Dean’s stomach dropped at the sudden recognition that there was  _nothing_ else in his life to look forward to. He lived for a quarter of century and all  he  achieved during that time was pleasing those three treacherous bastards. With them gone, he had  _nothing_ left. He was  _alone_ .

_He_ was nothing.

Just an empty shell filled with self-loathing and whatever  _others_ needed him to be, tossed aside by the same people he counted on to chase away his loneliness. On the surface Bobby will continue helping hunters until his death either of old age or at hands of some monster and Sam’ll start a new life, probably return to studying law and find a beautiful wife. Soon they won’t even spare a single though to Dean.

Now even Alastair was gone. Maybe he’s forgotten about him and Dean’ll remain forever lost in the darkness, chained to the rack, only screams of the damned keeping him company.

A sudden burst of desperation hollowed out his insides and Dean started shouting for Alastair, begging him to return and cut those horrible thoughts out with swift movements of blades. But no matter how long he pleaded, the demon didn’t return and Dean couldn’t tell if he was  simply being  watch ed from afar. God, Dean hoped it was true, he hoped it was just another of Alastair’s tricks to make him say ‘ _yes_ ’ instead of him being abandoned.

Alone.

Forgotten.

_Worthless._

No snarky comment and no pain to distract him from the awful truth. 

Dean didn’t know how long he was hanging there, his mind running free and wild, but he reached his limits. He had to stop it and without Alastair he had only one option left.

He took a deep breath and slowly tugged at the chains. Stakes pressed  against his flesh and bones, sending pulsating pain down his limbs and eclipsing those terrible thoughts. Following the agony, a pure bliss washed over Dean body and he couldn’t stop a content smile that stretched his lips. That’s what he needed. To focus of physical sensation, to lose himself completely in it.

Encouraged, he flexed his muscles and pulled stronger. His entire body jerked in protest, causing additional pain in his ankles and Dean almost laughed in satisfaction. Finally, the thoughts fell silent as his limbs twitched uncontrollably, warm blood streaming down his arm and dripping on the ground.

It felt ecstatic to regain even small bit of control over his own life, so he kept going, enjoying the growing injuries, the broken bones and ripped flesh that won’t be healed for a long time. Not until Alastair returns and then Dean will show him that doesn’t need nor want him. See how the sick bastards likes it.

  


***

  


The main entrance door to the bunker shut behind him with a loud bang.

“Dean?” Sam’s muffled voice came from the distance.

No, he couldn’t face his brother right now and answer all of his question, no t in the state he was currently in, so the older Winchester d ecided to do what he always does in such situations: hide and refuse to talk. At least until he calms down and figures out what the fuck is going on, which might take awhile.

He walked into the large lobby and over the railing noticed Sam on the floor below, rushing toward the staircase to meet him up and get some explanation, but Dean simply headed toward his room without stopping.

“Dean, don’t you _dare_ ignoring me!”

Sam’s footsteps and annoyed voice continued following him around as he stomped down the labyrinth of hallways toward the residential area. Once he sneaked inside his room and locked the door behind, he made it to the closet across the bed, where a mirror was located.

“Dean!” Sam shouted, banging on the door. His legs were visible thought the decorative partition at the bottom. “Open the freaking door! We need to talk!”

“Not now, Sam!”

“I’ve waited an entire day for you to return! Yes, we’re talking _now_!

“Give me a moment!”

He nearly jabbed himself in the eyeball with his trembling fingers, but eventually he managed to pull the eyelid s out of the way for better view. The iris regained its natural, green color and the sclera was completely white. No matter how much he looked, Dean didn’t detect anything out of ordinary, maybe not counting web of veins and dark bags under his eyes that were bigger than usual due to lack of sleep over the past two, almost three weeks.

The constant hammering on the door was becoming painful to listen to. Dean could feel blood vessels in his brain pounding in rhythm with Sam’s hand, threatening to explode any moment.  _Fantastic_ . Headache was  _precisely_ what this horrible day lacked. 

Fucking brat, always having to get his way—

“SHUT UP!” Dean exploded, snapping his head toward the door. The banging immediately stopped. “For _once_ in your fucking life do as I say!” He has officially reached the limits of his patience, so to drive the point that the conversation Sam demanded _wasn’t happening_ at this moment, Dean added: “Maybe if you listened to me every now and then, the _fucking Apocalypse_ wouldn’t have started and _hundreds of people_ wouldn’t have lost their lives!”

It was a cheap shot and Dean knew he’ll regret saying that, similarly how he knew t hree weeks ago he’ll regret choosing to date Cas, but he didn’t care  at the moment He stood there, shaking uncontrollably in rage and listening to combination of his and Sam’s heavy breathing, the only thing that filled the silence.

“Fine” the younger Winchester eventually spit out. “Have it your way.”

A pair of legs visible through the partition turned left and disappeared as Sam walked away. Soon his footsteps were drowned out by the  buzzing of lights .  _Finally_ the hunter got some peace to think his situation over.

The image of his own reflection staring at him with those black, demonic eyes was deeply integrated in Dean’s memory. He jerked back to the mirror and once again checked for any changes in his appearance, but found none. Was it only a hallucination? Was _everything_ that happened during his trip to the warehouse merely a figment of his imagination, including Alastair getting up and trying to follow him outside the torture room? He wasn’t sure what he saw back then ( _Nothing_ , a nasal voice whispered at the back of his mind. _You only heard some strange noises and let your mind run wild, Pet._ ), he wasn’t even sure what was going one anymore, but delusion was a plausible explanation. After all, he wasn’t a demon, so his eyes shouldn’t be able turn black.

Except… he used to be a demon – or in the very least on his way to becoming one.

While being Alastair’s student, Dean sometimes stopped tormenting another helpless soul to check his reflection in one of the shiny torture tools and see his eyes slowly gain dark tint to them, until he barely could see where his irises were. Near the end of those ten years Alastair used to fondle him, either gently or roughly  ( the way they both liked it best ) , and comment that it will only take a couple more years before Dean’s transformation is irreversible.  Back then  Dean felt excited at the pro spect of staying for eternity with Alastair, the demon who freed  him  from confinements of affection he felt for Dad, Sam and Bobby.

Of course then the angels intervened and healed his soul back to normal, getting rid of any hellish impact, but leaving far worse scars intact for Dean to deal with on his own.

Maybe something went wrong during that process and part of him remained a demon? That would mean Dean didn’t necessarily hallucinate his eyes turning black or any other event from his visit to the abandoned warehouse. Well… there was only one way to find out the truth.

Dean shut the closet door and collapsed on the bed, exhausted from the lack of sleep and everything that happened recently. He wanted to find out what was going on and put a stop to it, so he can rest like a normal person. Sighting in frustration, Dean closed his eyelids and clasped his hands together, even thought he never did that while praying, but hopefully such commitment will make Cas answer immediately instead of next week.

_Hey, Cas, I need to talk with you right now. That’s NOW. Not tomorrow, not in a month. NOW. Whatever you’re doing, drop it as fast as you can and get over here._

Amazingly enough he didn’t have to wait for an answer as the flutter of wings immediately filled the room and when Dean opened his eyes, Cas was standing a couple of feet away from the bed. Judging by the angel’s expression he didn’t appreciate the prayer’s aggressive tone. Whatever. He can deal with it.

“Hope I didn’t interrupt killing another demigod” Dean snickered.

“No” Cas responded. “What was it that you had to speak with me about?”

Now that the angel was here and ready to listen, Dean didn’t know how to start. For a moment he allowed his eyes to wander around the room, before locking them up on his intertwined hands and speaking: “I was thinking…” He cleared his throat, more out of nervousness than anything. “Back when you pulled me from Hell and restored my soul to its previous state… Is it possible that  you  didn’t heal me properly and I still have some remains of demonic powers?”

Cas knitted his eyes in confusion.

“What prompted you to ask that?”

_Of course_ he couldn’t just give a straightforward response, because  _everyone_ had to treat Dean like a complete imbecile and throw into question everything he says.

The hunter snapped his head up and looked angrily at Cas. “How about you answer the fucking question? It’s a simple one. ‘ _Yes_ ’ or ‘ _No_ ’?”

“No, it’s not possible.”

Between Cas being unable to detect any trails of supernatural presence in the bunker and nobody else sharing his experience, that would mean Dean was  _indeed_ hallucinating the whole time and not thanks to influence from some killable  bastard , but due to simply losing his mind. Dean remembered how Cas behaved when he absorbed Sam’s madness and the idea of being stuck in similar state was terrifying, far worse than facing any monster or demon.

“How can you be so sure?” Dean challenged. “Did you often save people from Hell and heal their souls beforehand? To my knowledge angels rarely bother with that and I got lucky purely because you needed me.”

“No, that was my first time” Cas admitted.

“Then you could’ve made a mistake!”

“I’ve had Michael’s guidance and he personally oversaw every previous raising from the Pit.”

Dean snorted. “Oh, that makes me feel confident! The bastard who wanted to use me as an angel condom and got dozens of people killed over his argument with Lucifer was involved in—“

“ _Dean_.” The sudden, sharp tone in Cas’s voice cause the hunter to falter and ultimately shut his mouth. “I recognize that you’re not trustful of Michael nor any of my  brethren and I understand why, but Michael had no reason to lie. Even if he allowed me to leave _any_ traces of demonic powers in you, the moment he would took you as vessel, they would instantly burn out anyway. In case you have forgotten, demons cannot withstand the power of grace.”

So there was no reason for Michael to sabotage his healing. Not that Dean genuinely believed in it to begin with, despite what a fucking asshole the archangel was; he was simply trying to move away from the other, more horrifying option.

As if on cue an image of Cas stuck in mental ward, rambling incoherently, appeared in his memory.

“Can you make sure?” Dean pleaded. “Can you reach into my soul and check?”

For the first time since his arrival Cas’s expression softened, followed by a noticeable slump in his shoulders. 

“That’s not a problem, but it will hurt you” the angel warned.

“I know.” Dean remembered when Cas crammed his hand inside Sam’s chest to make sure his soul was missing. The younger Winchester’s strained face and screams muffled by a belt in his mouth spelled of unspeakable agony, but if there was one thing Dean was used to, it was pain. “Let’s do it.”

After spending thirty years with Alastair tortures didn’t scare him anymore.

Without hesitation Dean shed off his leather jacket and threw it on the bed, his gun and flashlight rattling against each other on the impact, then quickly added his t-shirt to the mix. As he was sitting half-naked from waist up, he figured it would be a good idea to have something to bite into while Cas was checking his soul, so he unfastened his belt, slipped it out of the loops and stuffed it between his teeth.

It was clear that the angel didn’t want to cause him any pain, but Dean learned a long time ago that Cas nevertheless will do almost everything he asks him for.  A anyone else most likely would be either freaked out or ecstatic to have command over such powerful creature, but not Dean. He tended to forget that Cas wasn’t simply a dorky human who made him laugh a lot.

Those mesmerizing blue eyes were filled with regret already as the angel walked toward the bed and presses his hand to Dean’s bare chest. In any other situation the hunter would note the burning hotness emanating from Cas’s grace or pleasant smooth n es s of his palm – was Jimmy Novak taking good care of his skin or the angel simply fixed it to such perfection?

Cas paused and exchanged stared with Dean. When he was given approving nod, he pushed his hand inside.

Air was knocked out of Dean’s lungs, making them feel like two lead balls tucked inside his chest, and pain spread rapidly throughout his entire body. He bit into  the belt so hard he was sure his teeth will break any second. He found himself both struggling to breathe and incapable of doing so,  as  th is alien object press ed against his torso, preventing him from inhaling.

Beyond the sound of pulse rapidly beating in his ears, there was choir of screams coming from the distance. He wanted to join them, to shout as loud as possible and relieve some pain, but his voice failed to escape from his swollen throat…

…the feeling of ribs snapping apart, flesh bursting and blood streaming down his body as the blunt force keeps pressing on his chest, unstoppable, merciless…

…and a nasal voice coming from close by, anguishing over the fact he couldn’t hear Dean’s beautiful singing…

Then all of it ended and he was able to breathe again.

“Dean?”

A pair of hands shoot out to grab him by the shoulders, but Dean chased them away with annoyance. Although the room was spinning around him and he had troubles sitting, he didn’t need any pity. Sam could’ve dealt on his own last time, so can Dean. Just waiting for a moment will help.

Slowly he reached up and pulled the belt out of his mouth, letting it fall uselessly on his laps, the buckle clanking on the impact. Fuck, his teeth were killing him. Later he’ll have to check to make sure none of them was  snapped .

Finally, the room stopped spinning and Dean was able to breathe normally again. Cold sweat was drying on his forehead as he faced Cas who stood at arm’s length and watched him with a worried expression.

“So” Dean started, his voice horse “did you find anything?”

“No. Your soul is pure.”

Dean couldn’t stop a bitter chuckle that slipped from his throat. 

_Nothing_ in him was pure. He was letting  Sam and Cas to live in blissful ignorance about his real persona, the one that craved inflicting pain on others, because he didn’t want them to leave him alone, which they would do for sure the moment they learned the truth. And Dean knew the right thing for him to do in this situation was to pack his stuff and leave, never to return, thus freein g both to be happy without him. Only pure selfishness prevented Dean from doing it as he was terrified of being alone.

“You should’ve left me in the Pit” the hunter murmured.

Of course Cas didn’t have any choice in the matter; even if he refused to follow the order to rescue Dean’s soul, his superiors would just sent another angel in his place and then punish hi m severely, until he remembered his place. However, the idea of staying in Hell meant that Dean wouldn’t end up in his current situation, stringing Cas along nor slowly ruining Sam’s life.

The mattress sunk on his left and Dean turned to see Cas sitting down by his side, their tights almost touching.

“I know you hold an opinion that you didn’t deserve to be saved, but you also taught me that a blind faith isn’t good and you should always question everything you believe in, something that I have been doing for a couple of years now, a mere fraction of my entire life. This philosophy served me rather well thus far, but I want you to understand that lack of believes in _yourself_ is bad as well.” Cas leaned closer and once again there was this immense heat radiating from him, reminding the hunter he wasn’t dealing with a human, but a far older and more experienced being. “Never underestimate the power of faith, Dean.”

Dean stared into the intensely blue eyes until he wasn’t able to stand the concern reflecting in them anymore and he looked down, through the five-o’clock shadow to the pink, chapped lips. For a moment he wanted to close the distance between them, to lose himself in pleasure like did so many times before and forget about everything that happened in past three weeks, but—

( _I knew you’d enjoy it._ )

“Now that I have answered your question, I would like you to reciprocate and explain what prompted you to ask it in the first place” the angel said after a lengthy silence.

Cas didn’t understand,  _nobody_ did. John Winchester’s older son is not suppose to bother others with his petty problem, but keep his mouth shut and face everything on his own. That’s how it worked, so Dean only shook his head at the request and looked away.

“Please.”

_God_ , Cas’s voice was so broken.

“Whatever it is, you know I will help you.”

“You should go now” Dean murmured.

This time the angel didn’t argue nor stick around in hopes that Dean will change his mind eventually. He disappeared with a flutter of wings, taking the pleasant warmth away.

Dean leaned forward and hid his face in the palms of his hands, feeling drained of energy. So he really hallucinated the part when his eyes turned black last night, which brought a question what else was just a figment of his imagination. The sensation that someone stalked him through the hallways of the bunker? That was the most likely explanation, since Cas  _swore_ none of the protective sigils were broken and there were no traces of supernatural activity in the building.

Was he  really  losing his mind?

Or maybe that was the effect of being haunted by the nightmares about Hell for the last three weeks? The sound of footsteps and knife sharpening, Alastair’s voice… Yeah, it all fit somehow.

And the dreams started t hree weeks ago, when he chose to hook up with Cas.

Would they stop if their relationship ended?

Fuck, it was an awful idea, but Dean has reached his limits and he didn’t know how much longer he’ll be able to put up with constant reminders of Alastair. Sighting heavily, the hunter shifted weakly and laid down on the bed, deciding to wait a little longer and search for another solution. Relationship with Cas was the best thing that happened to him in years and he didn’t want to give it up so easily. There might be another way, some spell against nightmares perhaps?

But if there isn’t, then…


	5. Falling

Dean shut another book with annoyed huff and threw it at the pile that’s been growing like a fungus on the library table for the past four days. Various volumes laid in disarray, mocking him silently. Feeling raising fury, Dean had to close his eyes, lean backwards in a chair and pull at his hair to distract himself with pain, otherwise he would trash this place up.

Nothing. Four days of searching through the bunker’s literary supplies and he found  _nothing_ about possible cause of his nightmares nor an explanation how Alastair could’ve survived Sam’s attack. For that matter he also didn’t come across any mention of Special Children, so most likely Men of Letters weren’t even aware that demons infused some people with supernatural abilities. Dean has always found research to be a tedious chore, but  _fruitless_ ones were insufferable. Every now and then he would read a passage that sounded promising, giving him false hope, only for it to turned out in the end that it didn't have any useful information. He was  _sick_ of this constant teasing.

And to make matters worse a dull pounding appeared behind Dean’s eyeballs, foreshadowing a headache. Just what his life was missing… He massaged the top of his nose to alleviate some pain, but only achieved the opposite.

When a shuffle came from the library entrance, Dean snapped his head up in alert.

“Found anything?” Sam asked, standing at the threshold.

Relieved, Dean slumped down and shook his head. Although research wes frustrating and led nowhere, at least Sam didn’t bother him lately. Aside from asking Dean what he was looking for and offering help on the first day, he quickly backed away and left his brother alone.

However, it seemed that Sam’s patience ended, because his next words were: “It’s been four days now, Dean. Are you finally going to tell me what you’re searching for? I could help. You know I’m better at this stuff than you.”

It was true and Dean generally preferred to leave the literary research to Sam anyway, but he hated the prissy tone his brother spoke those words with, like Dean was a mentally challenged kid who fails to find the most basic things.

“No, thanks. I’m capable of dealing with problem on my own.”

“You’ve been trying to do that for the past three weeks” Sam remarked. A faint smile danced on his lips. “How is that working out for you thus far?”

Dean turned away, announcing that the conversation was over and silently willing his brother to go away. Instead he heard footsteps closing in and then a chair next to his scrapping against the wooden floor as Sam sat down.

“Look, I get why you’re acting this way” Sam insisted, his voice tired. Dean didn’t have to ask for clarification, because his brother always blamed their childhood and Dad for majority of their problems. “All the responsibilities and pressure Dad put on you when we were little taught you that your wellbeing doesn’t matter. I didn’t realize it for years, but the deal with crossroad demon was quite an eye opener for me.”

“Sam, I don’t—“

The younger Winchester raised his hand in silencing gesture as he cut Dean off: “Let me finish.”

_Fine_ . he wants to waste his time talking, Dean won’t be stopping him.

“As I said I get where you’re coming from” Sam continued. “I don’t agree with it, but I get it. And since you clearly don’t care about your own safety, allow me to put it this way” he leaned closer to Dean, talking more sternly “whatever is affecting you might eventually become a danger to me or Cas, maybe even Kevin and Linda. You’ve been searching through books for _four days_ on your own and found nothing. How about you accept my help now, so we can deal with it together like a team that we’re supposed to be?”

Each word spoken by Sam was a knife that cut into his heart, allowing shame and all of Dean’s insecurities to ooze from created wounds. Normally he would snap and start shouting in order to cover up the pain, but everything that happened recently – starting a relationship with Cas, rejecting Benny, three weeks of nightmares about Alastair – drained fight out of Dean, so instead he slumped in the chair and stared at the pile of books laying on the table, a visual proof of his failure.

A familiar image appeared in Dean’s head, one that haunted him since he was a little child: Dad kneeling on the motel room bed and hugging terrified Sam after Shtriga nearly killed him, while also watching his other son with disappointment and mistrust. Decades later Dean understood how unfair it was of Dad to blame him for something that was  _his_ responsibility – protecting Sam – especially at such young age, but it did nothing to ease the hurtful memory.

Now, as he stared at the pile of books, Dean realized that once again he failed to take care of his own issues and had to beg Sam for help.

Yes, he could stubbornly refuse and keep searching on his own, but Sam was right: whatever bothered Dean had potential to become dangerous toward everyone around him. Best to swallow his pride and resolve the problem as fast as possible before someone gets hurt. That’s why he started talking, despite his reservation. Admitting his suspicions about Alastair being alive felt like sharing crucial information that would allow Sam to deduce everything, including things Dean desperately wanted to hide away from him.

“I’m trying to…” Fuck, his heart was pounding from fear, but he made sure to not show it. “…to work out if Alastair’s the one who sneaked inside the bunker.”

“Alastair?” Sam repeated, knitting his eyebrows. “But he’s dead.”

“Maybe he survived somehow.”

“No, he couldn’t.”

The firm line in Sam’s voice caused Dean to look at him with annoyance. “How do you know that?” he attacked. “You see his eyes and mouth glow like a flashlight, and that’s good enough confirmation for you when dealing with one of the most dangerous demons out there?” Dean snorted and shook his head. “I expected more from you.”

A brief twitch moved in the corner of Sam’s lips. Dean wasn’t sure if it was suppose to express anger or disgust, but the next moment Sam said: “You have  _no idea_ how it was to use those demonic powers. How overwhelming and corrupting it was.” He hesitated before adding: “I could  _feel_ life burning out of him and I loved it, okay?”

Suddenly Dean understood that the twitch on Sam’s face showed horror at his own action. The same horror that overtook Dean every time he thought about torturing souls in Hell.

“I felt the exact same thing with Lilith” Sam clarified. “And we know for sure she kicked the bucket, because her death broke the last seal on Lucifer’s cage.”

This seemed like a pretty definitive argument, but if Alastair’s truly gone, where that leaves Dean? For last four days the sensation of being watched didn’t go away; quite the opposite, actually – it only grew stronger to the point of chocking any other feeling: hunger, happiness and arousal, but not tiredness. The lack of sleep was taking serious toll on Dean’s mood and ability to concentrate, which only slowed down the research.

While sitting alone in the library, Dean would frequently put the book he was currently reading away and scan the surrounding area, expecting a pair of black eyes to look back at him from behind a shelf or one of the dark corners where bright light of lamps hanging bellow the ceiling didn’t reach. It never happened, but the sensation that something is nearby never disappeared, turning into constant weight on his shoulder. 

Sometimes, usually after waking up from another nightmare, Dean could swear he saw a faint outline of a silhouette wandering down the hallways, but whenever he followed, even inside enclosed space with only one exit, it was gone.

For a little bit Dean considered the possibility that a djinn once again infused him with its juice and made him hallucinate, which certainly would explain the feeling of  _wrongness_ that followed him, but the theory had one fatal flaw. Djinns tried to create a pleasant world, where the victim wanted to stay instead of fighting to break free and yet Dean was bothered by those horrific nightmares about Hell. So… maybe a djinn that sought revenge on him like that bunch of assholes who attacked him when he was living with Lisa and Ben? But the hallucinations created by them were random and didn’t last as long as Dean was experiencing current visions.

So, if Crowley, Alastair and djinns aren’t responsible for last events, then… who?

Dean was so focused on his own thought that he almost missed Sam’s next words “Besides, Cas confirmed Alastair’s death”, but they immediately snapped him back into presence.

“Yeah, because he never makes mistakes” he growled in response.

Just hearing the angel’s name brought all of Dean’s doubts back to the forefront of his mind. Ever since they spoke for the last time four days ago he couldn’t stop blaming Cas for his recurring nightmares and contemplating how ending their relationship was the easiest – and judging by the effects of his research, _the_ _only_ – way of stopping them, which worsened his mood. After decades of misery he _finally_ managed to find some contentment in life and it was slipping through his fingers, no matter how hard he struggled to hold onto it. He was pissed off at Cas and himself. _Goddamned_ , Cas was supposed to subdue his pain, not intensify it!

It didn’t help that their argument from four days ago was followed by a text-message in which Cas informed him about the newest hunt he was about to go on and that he won’t be able to contact Dean until he’s finished. Since then there was a complete radio silence. Maybe Cas wanted to give him a space to figure things out, but instead Dean felt that they were drifting apart, because he wasn’t able to get rid of those  _fucking nightmares_ .

That’s how he ended up in his current situation: wanting to quickly end his relationship with Cas and struggling to keep the best thing that happened to him—

( _I knew you’d enjoy it._ )

He was so fucking exhausted and now Sam treated Cas as a know-it-all who never makes a mistake. Except for releasing Leviathans from the Purgatory and claiming that the bunker’s security was impossible to penetrate, leaving them unprepared when something managed to sneak. Those seemed like a pretty big screw ups!

Sam’s angered expression brought Dean satisfaction.

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe _you_ are mistaken?” the younger Winchester fired back. “That stubbornly believing something’s out there to get you doesn’t instantly make it true? Or refusing help doesn’t make you a tough guy?”

Of course he immediately thrown Dean’s words into doubt. What else did Dean expected? With a sigh he reached for a new book and opened it, determined to return o his research.

“Don’t shut me off like this” Sam demanded.

“What’s the point of continuing?” Dean asked, scanning the contest page and making it plainly obvious their conversation was over. “You’re just going to deny everything I say anyway”

“That’s because what you say makes _no sense_.”

Despite the fact that Dean’s brain wouldn’t register a single word he tried to read, not with Sam staring at him and radiating frustration from the seat next by, the hunter kept his eyes moving over the pages, pretending to be busy. The faster he can get Sam to leave, the faster he’ll return to actual research.

“Dean, _please_ , talk to me.”

It hurt to hear such desperation in Sam’s voice, made only worse by the knowledge that  _Dean_ was the one to put him in this situation to begin with. Years ago, while Dad was still alive and they ventured to find him, they were so close. The inseparable Winchester brothers who were able to face any problem  _together_ , them vs. the world. How they ended up here, barely able to hold a civil conversation for a couple of minutes before it turned into another argument and Sam preferring to enter a relationship with random woman, rather than search for ways to get his own brother out of the Purgatory?

The barrier that Dean built to keep those sick desires awoken by Alastair hidden was pushing everyone away. Ironic, considering that it was meant to do the opposite. Unfortunately, the lies Dean had to tell, the manipulation he had to use were working less and less with time. Cas knew there was  _something_ Dean refused to tell him, even if he didn’t seem capable of figuring out the truth. Sam on the other hand was growing more suspicious with each day, slowly realizing that Dean isn’t the same brother he was looking up to as a kid and who took care of him when Dad was too busy hunting to bother raising them. It only made Dean  _more_ desperate to hide everything, but the barrier of ugly secrets kept him apart from both men. Any day now they will leave Dean alone, making all his efforts pointless. And once he loses sight of Sam, and Cas, what will give him enough strength to keep those desires under control?

Although lies weren’t working anymore, Dean didn’t know what else he could do. Come clean to Sam and Cas? No, it will only make to abandon him  _faster_ . Not to mention, the burden of awareness that they've been supporting a monster for years… No, lying is the better option in the end.

That's why Dean didn't show any reaction when Sam stood up and stomped out of the library, even though the pain in his chest was cutting deeply into his heart.

  


***

  


Alastair eventually returned. How much time passed since he left, Dean didn’t know. It could’ve been days, weeks or even months of nothing distracting him from thoughts whispering about his worthlessness that were emerging inside his mind like an infestation. The pain stopped working somewhere along the way and he hanged uselessly on the racks, his wrist and ankles a bloody mess with bones sticking out to the sides and chunks of flesh laying in the red pool below.

When Dean saw the demon enter the bright circle of light, his heart jumped eagerly at the view of perfectly trimmed beard, white button-up shirt, dress pants and spotless, leather shoes, but he quickly squished this excitement. He wasn’t a child anymore, a child that was willing to forgive every misstep in order to earn some affection. No, he was pissed off, because Alastair lied to him. The demon  _promised_ that he’ll be the only person who never abandoned Dean and yet merely few minutes after saying those words he disappeared for unspecified amount of time, leaving Dean alone and at the mercy of his own mind. If Alastair believed he could just waltz in like nothing happened, there was a surprise waiting for him.

Clearly he didn't get a meme, thought, as the demon paid no attention to the ex-hunter and stepped to the metal table to start preparing torture tools. Of course, they were all sharp and ready, but Alastair nevertheless picked on of the knives and started sharpening it, the sickening sound sending shivers down Dean’s spine. For a moment Dean stared at those long fingers dragging the blade along the stone ( _schlik, schlik_ ), willing Alastair to talk to him, before he lost patience.

“Took you long enough” Dean growled. “Weren't in a hurry to return to your _favorite_ bastard to torture, were you?”

However, Alastair didn't show any reaction to his words, didn't ever falter or grimace, just continued sharpening the knife as if nobody said anything. That was a complete deviation from the norm, because Alastair  _loved_ engaging in little chit-chats and always gave Dean a  _thorough_ explanation for why the spot he was currently cutting into hurt so much. What's more he also didn't bother fixing any of Dean's self-inflicted injuries to have a fresh start as he would before every torture session.

After being depraved of interaction with another person for so long, Dean couldn't stand Alastair's silence. He  _needed_ to hear the demon talk and distract him from those horrible thoughts of worthlessness pounding inside his skull.

“Cat got your tongue? Previously I couldn't get you to shut up.”

Once again he got no response. Alastair raised the knife up, moved his finger along the blade to examine its sharpness and nodded with approval. Then he turned toward the racks and Dean braced himself, because  _finally_ Alastair will acknowledge his presence and make some sneering comment…

Except none came. Alastair remained silent and refused to even meet Dean's eyes as he pressed the dull side of the blade against his bare chest. Although the feeling of cold steel was pleasantly familiar, it wasn't followed by the torture. As Alastair started dragging the knife over Dean's skin without leaving any cuts, the hunter almost cried in desperation. He  _needed_ the distraction from his own thoughts. Alastair wouldn't speak to him and now he withheld the pain.

For a brief moment he wanted to scream ' _Yes_ ' and be done with it, but that feeling of weakness was quelled by anger.

No, he won't break so easily. He spent his  _entire life_ bending to the will of everyone around him – Dad who only cared about avenging that dead _whore_ of his, Sam who  _abandoned_ him at first opportunity and Bobby who couldn't be bothered to defend two helpless children from their abusive parent – without getting anything in return and he reached his limits. If Alastair wanted Dean to snap, he'll have to try  _harder_ .

“Why won't you talk to me?” Dean attacked. “Run out of topics? Well, here's one: what differentiate you from a piece of shit.”

The pointy end of the knife pressed against his skin, cutting it open. Dean jerked his head up and groaned at the stingy pain, feeling the blood spill from the new wound. It was barely a scratch and not enough to provide a distraction, but he didn’t care. He saw how Alastair’s muscles tensed when he insulted him. There was no mistaking that he managed to get a reaction out of him and he was just  _starting_ .

“You’re getting soft, that barely hurt” Dean sneered as Alastair started lazily dragging the dull side of the knife over his stomach. The flesh wound stopped burning and he was already getting fidgety again. “Maybe you should think about changing the profession and letting younger generation take over if you cannot keep up the standards?”

Immediately the blade penetrated his underbelly, sinking all the way to the handle. Dean gasped in shock and his entire body twitched involuntarily, pulling at the cuff, but he barely felt anything in his ruined wrists and ankles.

Then he almost chuckled at the realization that for all of Alastair’s composure and nonchalance, he was just as petty as every other demon out there, quickly loosing it under mockery. Fucking idiot, he saw nothing yet. Dean’ll show him real insult and  _make_ him talk again.

With this newly acquired knowledge Dean grinned at the demon and started litany of curses. Each one earned him the ecstasy of knife cutting into his body and sending waves of agony through his nervous system all the way to his mind, finally chocking down those unbearable thoughts, until there was nothing but pure pain. He wanted to sing in relief, but kept throwing insults between his own screams and enjoyed the precision with which Alastair moved the blade around the edged of his stomach, and the sound of blood splattering on the ground. Once the demon was done, he peeled off the skin and soft flesh, exposing Dean's inner organs.

The entire process was mercilessly slow and by the end of it Dean couldn't scream anymore, his throat swollen from the effort. Instead the cries of the damned that surrounded him provided expression for his agony.

When Alastair started pulling his guts out, Dean whimpered and tears filled his eyes, but he was unable to do anything beyond that. He felt how colon, stomach, kidney and things he didn't recognize were  _yanked_ out of him, then casually tossed on the floor, where they landed with a loud splatter. Eventually there was nothing left inside him, except for throbbing pain that left his brain pleasantly hollow as well. Dean hanged limply, a faint smile twitching on his lips. He barely paid attention to Alastair, who stepped closer, grabbed his chin with wet, bloody fingers and raised his head up to look him straight in the eyes for the first time since his return.

“I'm glad that grew to appreciate out time together” he sneered.

And just like that Dean realize what he has done.

He… he  _got off_ on being tortured. What's more, he  _wanted_ it and when Alastair refused, he manipulated him into doing it anyway.

_Jesus Christ._

Bitter tears streamed spilled over Dean's eyelids and streamed down his face. He struggled to explain himself and his throat still wouldn't work, but he had to speak, had to say  _something_ , otherwise he might explode, so despite burning sensation he managed to wheeze out “i hate you...”, before he lost voice again.

Alastair gently pressed his hand to Dean's cheek and wiped one of the tears.

“Soon you'll learn that hatred is equally as deceiving as love that you so desperately clung to for your entire life” he commented. He leaned closer, until his mouth were almost touching Dean's lips and added “My beautiful Pet...” as the scent of his warm breathe mixed with sulfur brushed against ex-hunter's face.

Then Alastair closed the distance, kissing him tenderly.

And for a moment Dean kissed back...

  


***

  


His eyes flew open, ripping him out of the nightmare. He laid on the bed, head buried in the pillow and body tightly covered by the duvet, both wet from sweat, as nausea shook his stomach. In a matter of seconds he was on his feet, standing over the trashcan and heaving deeply, but nothing came out except for few spits of saliva. Not surprising, considering that he didn’t eat anything on dinner, taught by the experience from previous three nights. What’s the point of consuming food if he’s at risking of throwing it up later?

There was a bitter taste of sulfur in his mouth and Dean almost wished that he could vomit, just to get rid of it properly. Instead he stomped to the nightstand and pulled out a small bottle of vodka, nearly empty despite being bought only yesterday. With shaking hands he unscrewed the cap as the liquid sloshed inside and took a nice, long sip. He allowed the alcohol to swirl around his mouth for a bit to kill the taste of sulfur and swallowed, enjoying the familiar burn in his throat. Just what he needed. He took one more gulp and moved back on the bed to calm down. However, while Dean sat in the darkness, cold shivers started rocking his entire body. He quickly disposed the bottle on the nightstand and braced himself on the bed to regain composure.

It didn’t help and after few seconds Dean’s muscles in his legs, arms and torso strained painfully, feeling more like stones that were stored under his skin.

_He couldn’t fucking calm down._

Waiting things out did jack shit. Each time Dean awoke from nightmare in past three weeks, the situation was getting worse and worse. At first he only had to lay down in bed and wait for the traumatic memories to slowly fade away before he was ready to get up, but now…

_Fuck_ ! Why won’t he  _stop shaking_ ?!

Between lack of proper sleep, constant reliving of his imprisonment in Hell and haunting sensation that something was after him, Dean has finally reached his limits. He  _tried_ to grit his teeth and just put up with the nightmares until he found some solution for the problem, he  _really_ did, but he couldn’t do it anymore.

Struggling to control his own body long enough to do what he had to do, Dean rolled on his side, grabbed his cell phone from the nightstand and turned it on. Once his eyes got used to the sudden brightness, he scrolled through the phone book, which was made harder than usual due to his hands twitching uncontrollably, until he found Cas’s number. His thumb froze above the call button as his mind brought the memories of those mesmerizing, blue eyes and warm, barely noticeable smile that almost always was dedicated purely to him.

_God_ , he wanted to put the phone away and forget about the whole idea, much like he wanted to put his arms around Cas and never ever let go, to pretend this cruel world didn’t exist and there were only the two of them, together—

( _I knew you’d enjoy it._ )

Except it wasn't just the two of them, not really. Dean could pretend otherwise, but Alastair's lingering presence was always in the background, slowly poisoning his relationship with Cas the same way it poisoned his soul back in Hell. But he won't allow it to happen. He'd rather give it up than allow Alastair to ruin one of the best things that he has left in his life. 

Although, in a way he already did.

Dean pushed the call button and raised the cell phone to his ear. Several signals passed without Cas's answering, so the voice-mail responded and he recognized his own voice, coming from a distance and filled with frustration: “ _...no, talk to the speaker.”_ , followed by Cas saying louder “ _This Castiel. I cannot pick up right now, but Dean asserts you can leave a massage I can listen to later. The recording shall start after a beep, so watch out for it._ ” Normally he would laugh at Cas's obliviousness, but instead he felt a painful squeeze in his heart.

When the signal came, Dean swallowed with difficulty due to sudden lump in his throat.

“Heya, Cas, its me.” Fuck, he sounded so _defeated_. He had to tell himself that this was the best solution for everyone, especially Cas, because he won’t be strung along by someone who doesn’t deserve his affection, no matter what the angel says. “I need to talk to you about something. I know you're busy with a hunt right now, that's why I'm leaving a massage. Drop by when you have a moment. It's… it's really important.”

Then he hung up and laid down on the bed, still clutching to the phone and struggling to calm his body. Despite pain in his muscles and constant shaking, eventually the exhaustion won and Dean fell into another restless dream full of tortures, suffering and Alastair.

_It will be over soon_ , Dean hoped in his last conscious thought. And maybe then the nightmares… and the feeling of someone stalking him when he walked around the bunker… they will both stop.

  


***

  


One week has passed without any response to his message and Dean began to seriously worry. Although Cas might’ve been simply distracted by a really big hunt – killing demigods trying to enslave entire countries isn’t a small beer after all – they had unwritten agreement since the day Dean became his boyfriend that Cas’ll give regular updates about his wellbeing. For the first two weeks he sent calming texts almost daily and when Dean’s… “ _nightly encounters_ ” started, making the hunter unwilling to talk, he still did it at least every third day.

And now a radio silence continued, which was driving Dean insane. Did something went wrong during the hunt? He spent every waking hour alternating between imagining Cas’s lifeless corpse, blood trailing down from a corner of his mouth and eyes wide open in shock at the sudden attack, and leaving additional messages. Maybe his previous recording got lost due to bad reception?

In meantime he and Sam went on another hunt of their own, a simple case of particularly vicious Chupacabra attacking ranchers in Sweetwater, Florida. While the monster killed some chickens and goats, thankfully its human victims made it out alive with only scars and medical bills. Wanting to prevent any real casualty from appearing, the Winchesters scoured nearby woods and on the second day Dean finally caught the sight of Chupacabra, and promptly put a sniper rifle bullet in its head. Simple and clean hunt. However, the entire time Dean couldn’t stop himself from checking his cell phone for any new messages and worrying about Cas’s safety.

That was two days ago.

Dean couldn’t focus anymore while he continued scavenging through the library supplies in hopes of finding answers and solutions. If he tried to read a new book, letters and words printed on the pages made no sense to him, and eventually he had to shut the cover with frustrated groan. His mind refused to forget about Cas or the possibility that he was dead even for a moment.

Despite knowing what he’ll see, Dean checked for any new messages. Nothing. He started idly knocking the bottom of his cell phone of the library table, feeling a cold pressure in his stomach. Should he use summoning spell? No, he might interrupt Cas at crucial moment and worsen the situation he was facing.

However, if he doesn’t get a response in another week, he won’t have a choice. 

Was Dean overreacting? Previously it was normal for Cas to be silent for prolonged periods of time, on rare occasions months, before they became a couple and yet he always returned to Dean, healthy and ready to support him on his newest quest. Of course back then Dean still worried sick about him.

At this point he wasn’t able to tell anymore if his concerns were warranted, though. For the past week the feeling of being watched followed Dean around, but nothing ever happened to him. It made no sense. Why would someone just keep spying on him, instead of simply attacking? Dean had no deep secret his enemies could turn against him, no hidden strategies he used during hunts to unveil. If a monster sneaked inside the bunker, the most logical choice was to wait for an opportunity (of which there were many while Dean wandered through the hallways in the middle of the night, defenseless) and strike.

Even right now as he tapped his cell phone on the table and pondered about Cas, he had a lingering suspicion something malicious was watching him, baring its fangs and claws—

A shuffle to his left made Dean jerked up and look toward the library's entrance, but it was just Sam. That, however, hardly gave Dean any relief, because his younger brother watched him with face deprived of any emotion, bringing to mind a featureless mask. Clearly, he was drained after weeks of tolerating Dean's behavior.

But... there was something else, something  _off_ about Sam's behavior. Just the way his arms hanged limply along his torso like some useless appendixes and his entire posture was stiff like Cas's—

Jesus, his brain must be  _seriously_ screwed up. He's ready to accuse his own  _brother_ of being a monster.

“Something’s up, Sam?” Dean asked, setting the cell phone aside.

“You’ve been researching for almost two weeks now” Sam noted in hollow voice that boomed in the surrounding silence “and I wanted to know if you’ve found anything. Do you have an idea what’s causing your hallucinations?”

“I’m not convinced those are only hallucinations.”

“What else could they be?”

Eleven days of research and he wasn’t any closer to answering this question than before. “I still don’t know” Dean admitted, shaking his head.

Sam snorted in response. Instead o snapping Dean kept his nerves under control, because he couldn’t blame Sam for being angry. They hardly exchanged a single word beyond discussing the hunt since their two arguments last week, when Dean behaved horribly.

“Okay, you’re right” Dean sighted. “I could use help.” He reached for the pile of books to pass some of them to Sam, but his eyes were caught by the cell phone, which still laid quietly on the table. “But first I want you to call Cas.”

Sam knitted his eyebrows. “Cas?” he repeated in confusion as if he’s never heard that name before.

“Yes, Cas. I left him a message a week ago and he still didn’t respond. Lately he’s been better about staying in contact, so…” Dean shrugged nonchalantly. “I’m kind of worried, that’s all.”

Why was Sam staring at him like he’s completely lost his mind? Dean tried to stay calm as he held his brother’s gaze, but that  _itch_ was back, warning against upcoming danger.

“Dude, what’s wrong?” he asked, unsure if he wanted to hear the answer.

“Don’t you remember?”

“Remember _what_?”

Part of Dean’s mind registered that while Sam’s expression changed, his body remained stiff and arms continued hanging limply on his sides. On top of the younger Winchester’s confusion over Cas, it only made Dean more uneasy. There was something seriously wrong and he needed to hear an explanation  _right now_ .

Then it came: “Dean… Cas is dead.”

The library suddenly shifted around him and Dean had to grab onto the table to not fall over. When did that happen? Why wasn’t he informed  _earlier_ ? When a couple of seconds have passed, each emphasized by the thudding of his heart, he regained enough clarity to choke out: “W-what happened?”

“He died years ago from injuries inflicted by Leviathans after he returned all souls to the Purgatory”.

What… what  _the fuck_ was Sam talking about?

Dean remembered that part all too well: Cas’s lifeless body laying in his arms while unbearable pain was ripping his chest apart, pain comparable only to the tortures he lived through in Hell.

However, the story doesn’t end there, because months later he found Cas, alive but without memories, living as a miracle healer called Emmanuel. As in previous cases they figured God had a hand in his return, although they didn’t know why he insisted on bringing him back to life. Not that Dean cared about the details. What mattered the most was the fact that Cas came back to him and he didn’t leave permanently since, so why Sam acted like it never happened?

“But God resurrected him” Dean reminded.

“Is that how you remember it?” Sam questioned.

Was this some sort of sick attempt at punishing Dean for the way he behaved recently? His brother  _knew_ how important Cas was to him, pretty much as important as Sam, and how much he suffered after his death at Leviathans’ hands. Despite their differences, Dean would never think Sam could be so cruel to even joke about those things.

“I remember it the way it happened!” Dean snapped and glared at Sam, which didn’t faze the younger Winchester. What the fuck was his problem? “I talked to Cas _last week_. Heck, _you_ talked to him, so don’t act like he was dead for years!”

“Dean” Sam said in stern voice. “I’m not making anything up. This isn’t the first time you’ve convinced yourself that Cas is alive, but that won’t return him to you.”

Dean didn’t know what kind of fucked up-mind games Sam was playing nor what he expected to achieve, but unfortunately for him there was an easy way for Dean to disprove his lie.

In quick motion the older Winchester stood up, his chair scraping against the wooden floor, and stomped out of the library. While passing the threshold, he noticed a faint outline of smirk on Sam’s face, but that made him pause only for a second, before he decided to ignore it and headed to the residential area. As usual the sound of his own footsteps echoed around the hallways and the familiar sensation of being followed returned, although different somehow, more powerful and overwhelming, making it harder for Dean to get a lungful of air. Hunter’s sense told him to turn around and face the creature that stalked him. Its warning fell on deaf ears, because Dean knew that he won’t see anything if he looks back, just like he never saw anything on previous occasions when he tried to check on mysterious shadows that appeared to pursue him around the bunker.

Finally, Dean entered his room and immediately yanked the closet’s door open. If Cas was really dead – and seriously, that was a fucking ridiculous claim to make – he would keep  _it_ for sure, so he searched through his clothes, pushing aside the ones on hangers to clear the view and pulling everything stashed in the boxes out. He didn’t believe for a second Sam’s words, but he couldn’t stop the feeling of dread that spread right under his skin as part of his mind questioned what else he could’ve hallucinated.

No, it was one thing to believe his eyes turned black and a completely different one to convince himself that Cas was alive if he died years ago.

Jesus, now the image of Cas laying motionlessly in his arms was stuck in his mind.

He didn't find it in the closet, so next he moved to the desk, but aside from old newspapers clips,  spare gun and two bottles of holy water there was nothing of importance inside. Although he was currently disproving Sam's claim, the feeling of dread grew stronger like his mind believed he was getting closer to a horrible discovery, but it was ridiculous assumption. Cas was  _fine_ . They talked with each other  _last week._

The last place he hadn't search was the nightstand, so he quickly walked to it, figuring that afterward he'll look inside Impala's trunk, because that's where he stashed it last time to keep it close—

Any thought Dean had disappeared the instant he pulled the nightstand's drawer. 

He stood frozen in place for God knows how long, then slowly reached inside to make sure it was really there. His fingertips slid against the once smooth material, now worn out and rough from abuse, as a sob slipped from his mouth. It was here. It was really here. The old trench coat he fished out of a lake.

Struggling to breathe, Dean pulled the clothing out of the drawer and something flopped on the ground, catching his attention. He knelt down and picked up the fake FBI badge he gave Cas in the past. Numb from shock, Dean wasn't able to piece the facts together and kept looking between the two items in his hands. He couldn't understand why had either of them. When Cas left mental institution to join them on their quest to stop Leviathans, Dean returned both things to him.

Sam's voice repeated in his memory: “ _Is that how you remember it?_ ”

Dean jumped on his feet and run toward the garage, ignoring the familiar sensation of being watched, ignoring the faint screams – or maybe it was just blood pounding in his ears – that seemed to be coming from the distance, ignoring worried Sam he met on his way. He had to get away from this treacherous place that kept screwing around with him, so he can call Cas in peace, because he won't believe it, he won't  _ever_ believe that Cas left him, not when they finally became a couple. How could he even consider breaking up with him over some stupid nightmares?

The night was cold as he sped down the unpaved road, sending grains of sand and gravel into air, until the bunker disappeared far behind him. Only then Dean stopped and got out. Stars shined brightly above his head, but he wasn't able to appreciate their beauty due to cold dread filling his stomach and chest. He sat down on Impala's warm hood and closed his eyes.

_Cas, I need to talk with you right now. Please, come to me._

Seconds passed, melting into minutes without any reply. Cold wind smacked Dean in the face and yanked at the tree tops, making the leaves shiver as if in fear. To Dean's worried mind it sound like a whisper that insisted Cas won't return this time around and that he screwed up his only chance at happiness.

He couldn't stand it. He wanted to silence the damn whisper that reminded him of Alastair, so he jumped off the Impala's hood and stared at the night sky, stars blinking at him in silent mockery.

“CAS!” Dean shouted. “TALK TO ME _RIGHT NOW_ OR I SWEAR IT'S FUCKING OVER BETWEEN US! DO YOU HEAR ME?! _FUCKING ANSWER_!”

He continued screaming for an hour, until he wasn't able make his throat to work anymore, but the sensation of thousands of knives stabbing into his neck barely affected him,

Because he didn't get any answer.

No matter how much he pleaded nor how much he threatened, Cas never responded. Feeling numb and defeated, Dean got in Impala and headed toward the bunker with tattered trench coat, his only memento after what he's lost, resting on his knees the whole way back as Sam's voice echoed inside his skull: “ _Is that how you remember it?_ ”


	6. What You Believe

Darkness surrounded Dean from every side, threatening to swallow him whole and keep him inside for eternity. If he focused hard enough, he could hear its faint breathing under the buzzing of lights in the hallway and water rushing down the pipes behind his room’s walls, but paying attention to anything except the hollowness in his chest was becoming harder over time, so he didn’t bother. Instead he laid on his side on the bed, hugging closely the tattered trench coat to help ease the pain that refused to leave for past… well, to be honest Dean had no idea how long he stayed here. It didn’t matter anyway.

After his return to the bunker, when he brushed of Sam’s question and went straight to his room, he played with the idea of getting smashed and falling asleep, but ultimately figured that he won’t escape from suffering that way, he will simply change its form.

That’s why he laid awake, clutching to the trench coat like a scared little kid who holds onto their stuffed toy and hopes the terrifying monster they saw peeking through the window of their bedroom wasn’t actually there. Unfortunately for them, the monster was probably real and the kid wouldn’t live to see the morning.

Nobody could escape the cruel truth, not even a helpless child.

Wasn't that what he wanted though? To pretend his relationship with Cas never happened and that he never allowed Alastair's influence to take control over his life? In a way, since Cas was dead for years and they never had a chance to hook up, he got his wish.

Except no, that  _wasn't_ what he wanted. He  _wanted_ Cas to get freed of his toxic presence and be allowed pursue happiness somewhere else, maybe with another man. Or a woman, because to Cas gender was meaningless. He cared only about the content of people's characters.

It's truly astounding how much Cas changed since they met for the first time, going from emotionless, mission focused warrior who told Dean that he can throw him back into Hell if he won't start showing him respect to a kind guy who always put everyone's well-being over his own needs. Unlike Dean, he didn't let the pain he experienced over the years to break him, instead he used it to become a better person. In hindsight Dean could've learned a lot from him. Maybe then he wouldn't turn into this bitter human shell filled with anger that he wasn't able to control properly.

As he held onto the trench coat, trying to tune out noises coming from the behind walls and closed door, he stroked the scratchy material and reminisced about the first time he felt attraction to Cas. It happened only a couple of weeks after their first meeting, when he saw Cas in the heat of action, throwing hard punches and shrugging off any attack like they didn't bother him whatsoever. He looked magnificent and a pleasant warm overtook Dean's heart. However, not much time has passed before he realized that he became attracted to a man and he freaked out. Ever since then he struggled to fight against it, wasting years he could spent together with Cas and now it was all lost.

They didn't even kiss.

He had so many opportunities to do that, just lean toward Cas and close the short distance between them to taste those pink, chapped lips. For sure the angel wouldn't mind, even when they weren't officially together. At best he would tilt his head to the side in confusion as usual and ask Dean what he was doing.

Originally he hoped it was just another nightmare or some sort of misunderstanding, or heck, maybe Sam  _was_ screwing around with him and Cas will show up in the bunker in response to his desperate prayers, but that didn't happen thus far. So he spent the whole time laying in his bed, fighting against the overwhelming need to sleep and ignoring Sam's attempts at conversation every time he came by. Dean didn't want to talk with him, didn't even want to  _see_ him. The image of barely visible, satisfied smirk on his brother's face was still way to fresh in his memory. Did Sam seriously hate him so much that Dean's suffering was bringing him joy?

Of course Dean will eventually heal like he always does – as horrible as the idea of moving on after Cas's death was – and then he'll figure out how something so important managed to escape his memory, but for now he wanted to give in and completely forget himself in the pain that was ripping his chest apart.

To reminiscent about everything he's lost.

That gentle smile… deep voice… mesmerizing blue eyes...

And his final chance at happiness.

  


***

  


Another inescapable nightmare about Hell.

It started the same way as many of them before, with the sound of metal blade being dragged against a sharpening stone –  _schlik, schlik, schlik_ – and Alastair quietly focusing on his work, maybe planning the details of their current session, but that’s where the similarities ended. Instead of panicking, Dean remained indifferent to the whole affair, completely resigned to his fate by now. He kept his eyes closed, tuning out everything else. The screams coming from the distance were nothing but a white noise, pain caused by stakes piercing his wrist and ankles absent for the moment. He felt like he was laying in bed after a good night sleep, not dreaming anymore but not awake yet, when his body seems gone and his entire being reduced to a mind suspended in space. Of course, that moment of peace won’t last.

Alastair moved the knife  _slowly_ against the sharpening stone –  _schliiiiik_ – announcing that he’s finally done. Dean evened out his breathing to calm down the pounding heart and waited for what always followed: the tapping of dress shoes on the ground as the demon came closer and shuffling when he stopped right in front of him. However, Alastair didn’t immediately taunt Dean, but remained silent for a long time, longer than ever before.

“I must say, Pet, that you exceeded all of my expectations” Alastair confessed eventually. “When a word spread around Hell that John Winchester’s son will be paying us a visit, I was quite curious to meet you.” 

“ _John Winchester’s son_ ”. That’s what everyone ever acknowledges him as, his Dad’s good little soldier. In the past he took some pride in being related to one of the most respected hunters in the world, despite the fact that he had to pay with awful childhood for that connection, but as the years passed it became a burden around his neck that kept him chained to the life he hated so much and would never escape from.

“Oh, don’t worry. You claim to fame isn’t just about family ties” Alastair reassured. “You made a name for yourself. After all, how many people can say they have killed a high ranking demon? Only you, Pet.”

For some reason his voice was filled with admiration. Why was Alastair  _impressed_ that Dean shot Azazel dead, thwarting their plans in the process? Shouldn’t he be pissed off that mere human managed to defeat a member of his kind like many demons he came across since?

Maybe Alastair simply didn’t care about earthly businesses or any grand plans that other demons worked toward? In the past he admitted that he preferred to stay in Hell and torture souls, only resurfacing during important events. Last time that happened was during World War II when the scumbag helped to set up concentration camps. Creating new means of torture and learning how far he can push someone before they break apart – apparently that was the only part that truly interested Alastair and everything else, including running some errands for Hell, served as a mean to achieve space for his research.

A true artists focused on his passion.

“From our first meeting I knew that you’re going to be my masterpiece.”

At the sound of this last word Dean’s hand twitched reflexively and his fingers brushed against a soft, smooth material. He didn’t bother questioning how something so delicate appeared in Hell, place devoted to breaking one’s soul, and grabbed onto it, squeezing hard to relieve anger and frustration that managed to smash through his resignation.

“ _Masterpiece_ ”! The sick bastard saw him as nothing more than a stone to sculpt in!

“I have worked on _many_ souls before you” Alastair continued and Dean could barely hear him over fury raising inside his chest “but none of them so responsive, so defiant, so… _inspiring_ as you. Over the course of our acquaintanceship I reached new levels of cruelty and creativity. If you could only hear the way other demons whispered in _horror_ about all the things I’ve done to you…” Alastair almost purred, stretching the words as if he was tasting fine food. “I’ve turned you into a legend, Pet. A hunter who survived unspeakable torments and became my student.”

Dean squeezed his hand so tight it started to hurt from strain, but surprisingly the stakes piercing his wrists still didn’t cause additional pain. While Alastair meant his words to come across as praise – and at one point they were, after Dean turned into torturer himself and drunk any kind word like a thirsty kid – now they only filled the hunter with revulsion.

Wait…

“ _ **Became**_ _a student_ ”?

He finally opened his eyes and instead of Alastair standing next to metal table with torture tools lined on it, Dean was facing an even surface of white ceiling above his head. It only took a second for him to realize that he was spread across his bed, covered in duvet, one leg dangling over the edge. He turned his head to see that his fingers were tightened around one of the pillows and he slowly forced himself to relieve the grip.

Carefully Dean sit up, duvet piling around his waist, and scanned the room. No shadowy figure stood in the darkness with a knife ready to sunk into his flesh. Was he dreaming just now?

That’s when a stench of sulfur came to him from the entrance.

Unlike on previous occasions, this time it was  _intense_ and forced its way up Dean's nostrils, irritating his throat. The hunter chokes, covering his nose and mouth with a hand, and quickly turned toward the open door. All he managed to make out in dim hallway was the wall on the other side, but he had no doubts that Alastair stood there a moment ago and talked to him. As much as he would like to pretend otherwise, he wasn't dreaming a moment ago. The demon appeared to really be alive and inside the bunker, talking to Dean like they were still in Hell.

A cold sweat streamed down his back as a horrific though appeared in his head.

Maybe he never left Hell. Maybe he was still strapped to the racks and all events since his return to the surface were only an elaborate hallucination created by Alastair as a final torture to break Dean's spirit and permanently turn him into a demon.

Although that would mean everyone he cared about who lost their lives over the years – Jo, Ellen and Bobby – were actually fine, Dean felt a hollow pain in his chest like someone was ripping his heart out, because it would  _also_ mean he never met Cas – heck, there might not even be an angel called Castiel – and all the happy moments they shared didn’t happen.

He had to find out the truth.

Staring at the open door of his room and the dark hallway beyond it, Dean knew that the creature invited him to pursue, which most likely will him lead to a trap, but at this point he was more than ready to face his tormentor. He slipped from the bed while keeping his eyes on the entrance and stepped to the desk, cold from the ground seeping through his socks. He still wasn’t sure what he was actually dealing with – Alastair, another demon or some sort of monster – so he had to arm himself properly.

Inside the drawer was a spare gun, loaded and ready for usage in case of an emergency. Dad always told them to be prepared for sudden attack. It was one of the few rules set by him that they both still followed religiously and for good reasons. Dean pulled the weapon out, unlocked the safety pin, then grabbed a bottle of holy water for good measure and headed outside.

There was a complete silence in the hallway. Not even usual sounds filling the bunker – water rushing through the pipes, the pitiful heating system working or the building setting down – interrupted it. If Dean were in a clichéd horror movie, one of the soon-to-die characters would probably comment that it was “suspiciously quiet”.

The type of silence you encounter right before attack. Right before sharp fangs sink into your flesh, choking life out of you.

Dean paused in the threshold, looking up and down the hallway. Which way now? Was the creature trying to lure him deeper inside the labyrinth of corridors for easier victory or toward the entrance, feeling secure in its own abilities to defeat a seasoned hunter like him? Smelling the air didn’t help as the stench of sulfur has already dispersed.

Well, experience told Dean that monsters and demons were very cocky, a characteristic that frequently lead to their own demise, so he turned right and headed to the lobby. Despite overwhelming coldness inside the bunker Dean felt a heat raising under his clothes and sweat collecting on his back and neck. The hunter’s sense told him this was the final confrontation, that after weeks of suffering he’s about to face his tormentor. Instead of fearing that everything was just a hallucination caused by his deteriorating mind, he needed to focus and treat it like a normal hunt. Any insecurities on his side will give the enemy an advantage.

When he entered the hallway leading to the main entrance, a ray of light was shinning from the lobby. Dean’s heart skipped a beat at the realization that someone was there, but he simply fixed his hold on the gun and proceeded.

As it turned out the ceiling lamps were not only turned on inside the lobby, but also the library. Cautiously moving around, Dean stepped to the same table he spent last two weeks reading at and noticed that the pile of books grew since yesterday. Apparently Sam decided to continue his research.

One old volume was laying wide open on a yellowed page detailing some spell from the look of it. Dean checked over his shoulder for potential danger and then bent over the table to read, but the printed letters looked like a collection of inky blobs to him. Dammit, he couldn't function properly without his four hours of sleep!

What was Sam researching? Did he figured out who was stalking Dean and a way to get rid of them?

Just thinking about his brother brought the memory of younger Winchester smirking at him after announcing that Cas died years ago and Dean's blood boiled. What the fuck was Sam's problem? He clearly was aware for the longest time how important Cas was to Dean, even more than Dean himself, and yet there he was, mouth stretched in that disgusting, cruel smile. Sure, Dean was acting like an asshole for past month and maybe deserved to be treated accordingly, but he would never use Jess's death as a way to get back at his brother!

Recently Sam was seriously crossing the line. First, when Dean was stuck in the Purgatory and Crowley kidnapped Kevin, he shrugged it off as “bad things happen, what to do” and preferred to play home with Amelia. Now he was mocking Dean about Cas's death. If Dean didn't know better, he would think that Sam was posse--

His heart skipped a beat.

Sam acting callously toward him and Kevin like he used to do without soul… the hunter’s sense telling him something dangerous was close by, lurking at him around the bunker… the stench of sulfur… and that  _cruel_ smirk on Sam’s face…

Could it be?

Of course they both had anti-possession tattoos, but those weren’t one-hundred-percent foolproof. When Crowley wanted to use Linda Tran as a meatsuit, he simply had one of his followers sneak up on her and burn the tattoo, making it ineffective. Since Sam had his always hidden under a shirt, Dean wouldn’t notice any damages…

“Dean?”

His brother’s voice snapped him from reflection and Dean spun around, aiming the gun at the man before him.

Sam instantly froze and stared at the barrel wearily. “What are you doing?” he asked calmly as if he wasn’t in serious danger right now. He probably wanted to avoid ticking Dean off and earning a bullet to the chest. Not that Dean was about to kill his own brother. Bullets didn’t hurt demons anyway, but they still hurt, so shooting one in the leg would simply immobilize them long enough to perform an exorcism.

Fuck. His vision was blurring, his hands shaking and finger twitching over the trigger. He was so damn tired…

As he stared at his possibly possessed brother, Dean wondered for how long it could’ve been going on. Was Sam attacked right after he ended up in the Purgatory? There were demons nearby as Crowley helped them and then kidnapped Kevin, so Sam was at disadvantage. Just plant someone in his body and you have an easy control over the Winchester’s actions. The recent victories they scored – rescuing Kevin and Linda, getting the Demon Tablet back – might’ve been just a part of Crowley’s plan, despite how nonsensical that seemed at first glance. After all, demons had twisted ways of working. Ruby stuck with them for two years, frequently putting herself in mortal dangers, until she revealed her true colors.

Sure, Dean poured holy water all over Sam the moment they reunited, but Azazel wasn’t affected by it and dismissed it as a childish trick, so that way of identifying a demon wasn’t completely trustworthy either.

“Show me your tattoo” Dean demanded.

A spark of understanding flashed in Sam’s eyes. He raised his hands in pacifying gesture and said “Okay, I’ll do it slowly” in even voice like he was trying to calm down a frightened animal.

Cautiously he unbuttoned his plaid shirt and pulled it open, exposing the tattoo on his chest. Vaguely Dean noticed that Sam’s ribcage was raising and falling more rapidly than usual, but the difference was so small it would be missed by anyone who didn’t grow up with him.

Dean struggled to get a good look at the tattoo as his vision was blurring again. He blinked to clear it and when that didn’t help, he squinted his eyes. Dammit, he couldn’t see if there was any differences. The tattoo certainly wasn’t damaged, but a simple line drawn across it would nullify its protective qualities and allow access to any demon. That’s why they had to renew them every now and then… and that’s why he  _wasn't sure_ —

“I’m not possessed” Sam proclaimed.

What were his options? To draw a devil’s trap on the floor, then order Sam to step in and out of it? Unlike with holy water, he yet to meet a demon who was unaffected by it. However, that would leave him open for potential attack… He might get Sam to do it for him, but he wouldn’t be able to notice any changed to the sigils, not with his eyes screwing up currently.

“I don't know if I can trust you anymore...” Dean whimpered.

Truth be told, he didn't know if he could trust  _himself_ . He was so  _tired_ that his mind, heck, his entire body refused to work properly. Did Sam actually smirked at him back then or was it just a hallucination? Which events actually took place? Him ending up in the Purgatory with Cas? The entire competition between Cas, Benny and Crowley from two weeks ago? He didn't know anymore.

A familiar stench of sulfur reached Dean and his stomach turned in disgust. There was no mistaking, however, that it was coming from Sam, so the older Winchester fixed the gun in his hand.

“Why—”

“You stink like a demon!” 

He stared at Sam and waited, expecting his brother's shocked expression to be soon replaced by a satisfied grin like when Dad was possessed by Azazel. 

But the seconds passed and it didn't happen.

“Dean, please, _listen_ to me” Sam continued in calm tone, but a hint of desperation sneaked in. “You convinced yourself there's a demon stalking you around the bunker, but we've never found any proves. Something clearly _is_ messing with you, but it's not a demon. Put the gun away and we'll figure it out. Together, as a team, okay?”

But Dean wasn’t hearing him anymore.

“ _Convinced_ ”.

This word bounced around his head, slowly uncovering an old memory from years ago. He closed his eyes in hopes he’ll be able to concentrate better on the faint trail, because it was important, he knew that much. Dammit, what was it? Back then he also struggled to remember some crucial information, wasn’t he? And a group of people was convinced that—

Dean’s eyes flew wide open when it all came back and after two weeks of research he has finally figured out what type of creature was tormenting him.

Immediately all puzzle pieces started naturally falling into their rightful place without much struggle from Dean’s tired mind. Yes, everything made sense now – the sensation that he was being stalked, but nothing ever tried to attack him despite numerous occasion when he was defenseless; a mysterious shadow which he managed to notice wandering around the corridors before it disappeared from right in front of his eyes; and the creature’s ability to sneak past the protective sigils build into the foundations of the bunker.

It didn’t have to get inside at first, because it was  _born here_ and afterward… Didn’t he became  _convinced_ that this monster could freely enter the bunker before it actually happened for the first time?

“Dean, what’s wrong?”

Embarrassed at his own actions, Dean lowered the gun and turned to his brother. Although Sam was wrong in certain places – his nightmares weren’t created by the creature, but the other way around – he rightfully insisted they remain open minded and search for other culprit. If only Dean listen to him back then—

A movement above Sam’s shoulder caught his attention.

“Behind you!” Dean shouted.

But it was too late and despite Sam’s attempt to dodge the upcoming attack, a strong punch landed on his left side and send him flying across the table. He slid over the wooden surface, knocking most of the books down, then crashed into the bookshelf on the other side with a muffled cry and landed unconscious of the ground as several volumes fell down on his back.

Instead of rushing to check on him, Dean raised his gun again and aimed it at the creature standing in the library entrance. He stayed calm despite how much distress caused him the view of this familiar face. Perfectly trimmed beard, white button-up, dress pants and shiny, black shoes. And that horrifying smile painted across the lips. It looked exactly like Alastair.

“Have you missed me, Pet?” the creature said with nasal voice.

No, he was done playing this game.

“Cut the shit!” Dean demanded. “I know what you are!”

The creature’s lips stretched wider in a satisfied smirk and Dean tightened his grip on the gun, anger bursting inside his chest, because this expression looked exactly like the one Sam gave him yesterday after announcing Cas’s death. That’s how deep the manipulation was going. “Took you long enough” the creature sneered. “But better late than never as they say.”

Here was the bastard who tried to drive him insane for past two weeks and nearly made him shoot his own brother, mocking him openly.

Dean unloaded five bullets straight in its heart.

All of them hit the target, ripping holes in white button-up and piercing flesh, but there was no spill of blood and the creature didn't even flinch, only looked down curiously. Then it raised its eyes back at Dean and charged.

Fuck, Dean didn't know how to get rid of this enemy. Last time they came up with a banishing spell if memory served, but never had a chance to actually use it, so he couldn't recall any details. Maybe along Alastair's appearance the creature also gained his strengths and weaknesses?

Taking several steps backwards to put more space between them, Dean put the gun behind his belt and pulled the bottle of holy water out of his pocket.

_Goddamned!_ His hands were shaking too much and he wasn't able to get a solid hold on the cap!

When the creature stopped right in front of him, Dean swung the container toward its head in desperation, but a hand fastened around his wrist. Sharp pain spread through his limb under the steel grip and the bottle slipped out of his fingers, smashing on the floor and spilling its content and glass shards around their feet. Dean stared in the pair of cold eyes drilling into him, struggling to come up with escape plan, but the panic from being this close to Alastair paralyzed his mind.

_This isn't him. Focus._

“As much fun as it was to play with, _Pet_ , I'm afraid I have to end my visit now” the creature said in fake regretful tone.

First punch caused Dean to loose his balance and slam into a bookshelf behind him. Blood exploded inside his mouth and spilled out of the corners as he vaguely noticed few books falling down. 

“See, right now I'm tied to you” the creature's voice was muffled like it was coming from afar. “But once you're dead, I'll be free to go wherever I please.”

Another punch and another. Dean felt the shelves digging into his back as blood streamed down his jaw and neck. He needs to do something… but his head was swaying back and forth, headache splitting his skull. He could only stand there and watch the creature lean closer, its breath smelling faintly of sulfur.

“Don't worry” it whispered, gently trailing Dean's neck with index finger. “I won't split the loving family apart. Once I'm done with you, I'll sent your kid brother to Heaven as well, so you can both reunite with your parents. Ain't I the most generous person in the world?”

The creature's fingers skated across his skin and eventually tightened around his throat in merciless grip, choking a pained cry out of him. Briefly he struggles to break free, to kick his tormentor or pry the hand away, but he was too weak, too drained by lack of sleep and severe beating. Ultimately, he succumbed to his fate. Lungs felt like they're on fire, mind started fading away, darkness consuming him from every side. This is what awaits Sammy in a moment, the creature promised him, and its all his fault. 

If only he listened when it mattered...

If only he didn't allow the nightmares to defeat him…

A sudden flash of light hit Dean in the face and he shut his eyelids on reflex. The creature's scream filled his ears, managing to break through the numbness and headache obscuring his mind. Then he slipped from the steel grip around his neck and fell down on the ground, landing painfully on his side, but it didn't matter, because he could take a lungful of air again. He breathed in and out greedily, feeling his sore throat pulsate in celebration on newly regained freedom. 

Slowly he recovered clarity of mind and looked up, but instead of Alastair's face he first saw the bottom of a trench coat, then fingers clamped around angelic blade and finally a pair of blue eyes staring at him in concern.

“Dean, are you alright?” Cas's deep voice reached his ears.

Instead of answering Dean looked at the ground before him, where his tormentor stood mere seconds ago. Now nothing was left of Tulpa, not even a single speck.


	7. Stepping Away From The Abyss

“Please… let me go…”

Dean rolled his eyes and gave Danielle a pitiful look. “Now, stop being clichéd. You know that’s not going to help you. Haven’t you watched a single horror movie in your life, kitten?”

The sobbing woman dropped her head in defeat and cried silently, tears of fear streaming down her pale face along with snots. In any other circumstances she would be quite pretty and Dean might even fucked her when he was still on the surface, but the terror ripped any attractiveness away from her. Not that appearance matter much in Hell; it’s what on the inside that counted.

Biting his lower lip to not chuckle at his terrible joke, Dean leaned closer to stare Danielle straight into her panic filled eyes.

“Now, Danielle, let’s be honest with ourselves. You’re not here, because you led a moral life. And I’m not taking about parking tickets.”

A silence fell between them, interrupted only by symphony of screams coming from the distance, as Danielle clearly started thinking about all her misdeeds and that was a _long_ list to go through. First she milked her own parents for money to start her own business and when they grew too old to live on their own, she sent them to a cheap old people’s home and never visited them. Then she mercilessly started ruining her competition, in one case even spreading rumors (anonymously, of course) that some businessman was a pedophile. Since there was no evidences to start a trial, the man didn’t end up in prison, but it was enough to ruin his career much to Danielle’s advantage.

Cold bitch, wasn’t she? Dean had to admit to himself that he somewhat admired her character. If only he had this much guts back when he was alive instead of taking punched left and right.

“Tell me: was getting rich at any cost really worth it in the end?” he asked innocently. “The money you’ve been collecting your entire life is back on the surface and it’s not going to do you any good now.”

“I’m sorry…” Danielle sobbed. “I didn’t know… I didn’t mean to harm anyone…”

Dean blinked in shock. “Y-you didn’t want to harm those people?”

“No… I swear…”

“I didn't realize that. Well, in that case I should sent you straight to Heaven.”

Okay, seeing Danielle’s hopeful expression was too much and Dean burst into laughter.

Why every soul who ended up here gave such sucky excuses for their sins? When you’re hanging on the racks and about to be gutted like a fish, in the very least you could come up with something better to say than “ _I didn’t mean to_ ” or “ _Please, don’t_ ”. Did they honestly expected that those words will made a demon go “ _Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’ll regret your actions as soon as l approach you with a knife. Allow me to send you to Heaven now. No hard feelings, right?_ ” Yeah, not going to happen.

Huh, Dean guessed he used to act in similar way, didn’t he?

Fucking embarrassing.

Once he calmed down a bit – damn, his stomach was hurting from laughter and he had trouble catching breath – he turned back to the woman.

“Danielle, look me in the eyes and say you _didn’t_ enjoy crushing your competition.” Before she could utter a word, Dean raised a hand to stop her. “But be _honest_. I can tell when someone is lying.”

“No, I didn’t… I…”

A deep sigh escaped from Dean’s mouth.

“I asked you to be honest with me, kitten” he reminded, staring seriously at shivering Danielle. The woman’s face twitched in pain as she kept tugging at the stakes and fresh blood leaked out of the wound, joining the already dried trails. “I _told_ you I can catch when someone’s lying to me.”

Of course, he _didn’t_ actually expected her to tell the truth, because everyone who ends up on the racks only tries to free themselves through lies, begging and worthless promises, but why not allow her to believe she worsened her own situation. He might even comment when the torture starts that he’s more brutal than usual as a punishment for Danielle wanting to conceal the truth. That way he’ll have easier time breaking her and molding into a new demon.

Slowly Dean turned to the metal table with various tools lined on top of it and made a show out of picking one up, despite the fact that he decided on the hunting knife before he even met Danielle. He raised the large blade and slid a thumb down its sharp length, cutting his own flesh and allowing blood to stream down while keeping his eyes on Danielle. He saw how panic newly reignited on her face. Oh, she haven’t seen anything yet.

“Now I need to punish you” Dean chastised.

As he stepped closer, his shiny black dress shoes tapping against the concrete ground, Danielle started trashing uncontrollably to get away from him. However, all she earned was additional pain from cuffs, more spilled blood gashing down her limbs and muffled screams ripped from her mouth. This helplessness and self-harm was _beautiful_ and Dean finally understood why Alastair designed the racks in such way.

He waited patiently for Danielle to stop and eventually she hanged limply, but her fingers in left hands continued twitching; she must’ve injured some nerves.

“Don’t misunderstand my intentions. I’m not here to hurt you…” Dean faltered and then chuckled. “Well, okay, I am, but that’s not my main goal. I want to help you shed any human morals you’re still clinging to and embrace your _true_ nature.” He pressed the blade against Danielle’s bare skin, making her whimper. “Now, that might hurt a little bit…”

For their first torture session Dean decided to start with a classic: skinning alive. He easily sliced the skin apart, letting blood gush down bare breast and ripping a scream from Danielle's throat, then guided the blade around to cut rectangular shape. When he was done, he started scrapping the skin away from the flesh like scales from a fish. It separated easily enough and Dean wouldn't be affected much by such small injury, even at the beginning of his torture, but Danielle was jerking around and screaming for mercy. It was obvious she won't last long before her transformation into a demon.

During his time as a torturer Dean gave up his usual attire of dark t-shirts and jackets for white button-up. As he continued torturing Danielle, blood soiled the clean material and made it stick to his skin. He loved how his clothes looked, covered in red and chunks of flesh.

Slowly, his victim's screams died down and were replaced by barely audible whimpers. He knew that right now Danielle's mind was too overtook by pain for her to hear any taunting and explanation why each cut hurt so much as it did, so Dean gave up on taking and instead started humming one of his favorite songs, ' _Easy On My Soul_ ' by Bad Company, a very soothing piece that he used to listen to for comfort and it seemed like Danielle could use some.

When he peeled almost entire skin, except for the some pieces covering face and neck – the nerves weren't particularly sensitive here, so he always left it for the very end – a nasal voice reached his ears: “Enjoying yourself, Pet?”

He quickly turned around to see the Grand Torturer of Hell standing at the edge of spotlight, his mouth stretched in affectionate smile that was reserved only for Dean.

“Alastair.”

Instead of putting the knife away on the table, he nonchalantly sunk it to the hilt into Danielle's throat, causing her to give out a gargled cry, and strolled to Alastair.

“Like you're torturing souls purely out of obligation” Dean sneered.

“Careful, Pet” Alastair growled, but there was mostly amusement in his voice. “You might lose that tongue if you don't remember whom you're speaking to.”

Unimpressed, Dean leaned closer to Alastair, until their lips were barely brushing. His master's warm breath was blowing in his face and as always faintly smelled of sulfur.

“You won't cut it… You like it too much…” he whispered.

A strong hand grabbed onto back of his neck and pulled him into a crushing kiss. Alastair's tongue rammed its way past his lips and started exploring inside, driving Dean insane. He wanted more, _harder_ , so he encircled Alastair with his arms, pressing their chest together and most likely covering the other demon's shirt in blood, but who gave a fuck. Fingers on the back of his neck scratched his skin and Dean jerked away, hissing in pain. It felt amazing. Just what he needed.

“Put me on the rack again” he demanded

Alastair glanced at Danielle. “What about your guest?”

Dean followed his eyes and looked at the woman hanging on chains, face covered in tears, snots and blood, flesh almost completely exposed, large red pool filled with chunks of skin and meat underneath her. In this state she must be incapable of noticing anything beyond pain and desperate want to find relief in death. Dean knew that from experience.

“I doubt she's planning any trips in near future” he joked.

That's how he ended up hanging on the rack again, familiar pain of staked piercing his limbs. Although normally demons weren't tortured anymore once their transformation was completed, Dean and Alastair loved returning to this place if they weren't busy cutting someone or fucking in the Grand Torturer's chambers. For Alastair it was simple case of wanting to hear his favorite pet singing, while for Dean… well, he _did_ enjoy the pain. He guessed that after having unspeakable torments inflicted on him for thirty years, torments that had other demons whisper in fear, something broke in him irreversibly and he became a masochist. A _really_ fucked up one.

However, he mostly wanted to remain Alastair's masterpiece. As his studies were nearing completion, Alastair was starting to take on other souls again and Dean hated the idea that someone could steal his attention away.

_He_ was Alastair's masterpiece and no one else.

Those talented hands were fondling his naked body again and he sighed in contentment, staring right into Alastair eyes. Already he was getting hard at the idea of incoming suffering. Then maybe they'll go the chambers and fuck hard, the way they like it best.

“You're so beautiful, Dean” Alastair murmured. “You shall remain on my side as long as the world stands, won't you?”

“Nah” Dean shook his head. “I'm already getting bored with you, Gradpa.”

A spark of annoyance in Alastair's eyes brought him satisfaction.

“It seems the lesson about manners didn't stick yet.” The older demon scratched Dean's skin with his fingernails, leaving a pleasant trail of pain. “Then I shall start from the beginning.”

Dean only smirked in response as his masters picked up one of the tools.

 

***

 

This is what he used to be. This is what part of him still desperately longed.

To hear helpless pleadings for mercy, followed by screams of pure agony as his fingers bathed in fresh blood. Oh, how much he enjoyed it. After years of having no control over his own life – first obediently following his father’s orders, then being treated like a plaything by monsters and demons – it brought him a deep satisfaction to take control away from his victims and vent his frustration out on them. Each time he caused someone unspeakable agony, he felt peace spreading through his darkened soul.

Of course, there were also meetings with Alastair, when they either had violent sex in his chambers or Dean returned on the rack for additional tortures. Or both. In Hell pain and pleasure melted into one, so it made no difference to Dean. Back then all he wanted were sessions with his master, his teacher, his lover who allowed him to feel like he was cared about.

The same way that Cas made him feel now.

It was the similarities between those two relationships that truly scared him. Dean Winchester, a self-hating hunter, freed and saved from himself by a supernatural creature who grew attached to him. However, the difference came in how they treated him. Alastair viewed him mostly as a pet to play with in any way he wanted, while Cas… Well, Cas saw Dean as someone he wasn’t: a kind hero and role model to follow. Even before he went to Hell, Dean was none of those things. He drunk too much, seduced women and usually disappeared on them immediately after they had sex.

Honestly, he only wanted to survive another day in this crappy world and maybe make a positive change in other people’s lives, thus sparing them some suffering he went though.

But… wasn’t that enough to be called a hero?

“Is it really over?”

Sam’s words pulled Dean out of his thoughts and he blinked rapidly like he just woke up from a deep sleep; his body even felt appropriately sluggish after the encounter with the creature.

“Yes, Tulpa ceased to exist” Cas responded. At the sound of his gravelly voice Dean wanted to look up and confirm once more that the angel really was alive, but he was too embarrassed by recent events, so instead he kept sitting with his eyes fixed on the library table and listened as Cas continued: “I cannot sense its presence in the bunker anymore.”

“You couldn’t do that to begin with” Dean pointed out matter-of-factly. He had no fight left in him to start an argument. He didn’t have right to get angry anyway. This whole mess was his fault.

For a moment Cas remained quiet and Dean finally raised his eyes to see him clearly ashamed.

“I… I apologize” the angel said. “Unfortunately, each Tulpa gives out a unique supernatural energy depending on whom it was created by. Two weeks ago when I searched the bunker I wasn’t aware what exactly I need to look for, so I simply tried for any monster known to me and it gave no results. That being said” Cas's expression was overtook by confusion “I should have discovered a place where Tulpa was hiding. In building like this, filled with protective sigils, any cloaking spell would leave an empty spot in magical power.” He paused briefly, lost in a thought. Then he turned to Dean and studied him, which made the hunter squirm uncomfortably in his seat. “Were you convinced at the time I would not find anything?”

Dean chuckled in response, though his laughter was devoid of any humor. Now that he knew the truth, he could easily pin-point each instance he unintentionally empowered Tulpa.

“I guess it crossed my mind” he admitted.

For a couple of seconds Cas stared at him with what Dean swore appeared to be disappointment. After this epic screw up he couldn’t blame Cas for viewing him as a failure. Maybe Dad was right, maybe he shouldn’t be trusted.

Despite nervousness over what he was going to see, Dean chanced a glance at his brother and noticed the same expression on Sam’s face. Sam, whom he almost got killed due to his own carelessness and stubbornness. How things managed to spiral out of control so much? How Tulpa became so powerful without him realizing what was going on and putting a stop to it? Dean turned away in shame and fixed his eyes on one of the bookshelves, because he knew the answer on that question.

He believed he deserved what happened for past two weeks. That’s why he didn’t try to stop it too hard.

“ _I get why you’re acting this way_ ” Sam asserted about a week ago while offering his brother help that Dean refused. Maybe if he accepted it instead, things wouldn’t get this far. “ _All the responsibilities and pressure Dad put on you when we were little taught you that your wellbeing doesn’t matter. I don’t agree with this._ ”

What else did he say back then? Oh, that's right.

“ _Whatever is affecting you might eventually become a danger to me or Cas._ ”

Dean wanted to laugh again, but only shook his head at his own stupidity. This whole time Sam was right, especially when he argued that instead of a demon, something else could’ve been harassing Dean and they should check that trail just to be sure. Of course he ignored it, because in some way he was convinced he deserved the nightmare Tulpa created for him.

Did that mean his sense of worthlessness was a danger to people around him?

“Now that I actually had an opportunity to meet Tulpa created by Dean” Cas resumed, once snapping Dean out from his thoughts “and become familiar with its aura, I know what to search for. Currently I cannot sense any remains of Tulpa in the bunker. It is gone. Nevertheless, Dean is right: I have failed to locate it once before, so we should keep our eyes on him, Sam, to make sure he did not accidentally created another one. Just to be safe.”

“Sure, we can do that” the younger Winchester responded absentmindedly. “I just… I don’t get it… Cas, you said Tulpa looked like Alastair and apparently it pretended to be him from the start. Why?” He looked at Dean and Cas followed his eyes. “Why were you convinced that Alastair survived my attack to begin with?”

He didn’t know what to say. Selfish part of Dean’s mind argued that he needs to lie as he always did, otherwise he’ll lose what little he has left in life – Sam and Cas – but he couldn’t find any more strength to do it.

So instead he told the truth: “It’s not that I believed he somehow survived. He simply never died to me.”

“What does that even mean?” Sam questioned.

“It means I can feel his presence constantly” Dean snapped his head up and stared at both men. Now that he started talking, he couldn’t stop the inflow of emotions he was suppressing since his return from Hell. Words were spilling out of his mouth and he had no way of stopping them: “Every time I kill a monster, I almost can hear him complimenting my technique like he used to in Hell. Every time I hang out with Cas, he reminds me about…” Fuck, he struggled to catch a breathe. “…about all those disgusting… _things_ he did to me… that he made me _enjoy_ in the end.”

In dead silence that surrounded them Dean’s words sounded like a gunshot, ear-piercing and unmistakable. He saw pure shock on Sam’s face and he didn’t want to put any other horrific image on his brother’s mind, but he had to reveal one more part. Maybe it will be better if he pushed Sam away. At least then he’ll be safe from Dean’s toxic influence.

 “And a part of me misses what I used to be in Hell” Dean said in horse voice. The weight of this confession and Sam’s expression were too much, so he hid his face in the palms of his hands and propped his elbows on the library table. His mind screamed for him to stop, but he wouldn’t listen to it again. Look were its advises led. “It _craves_ blood… and screams of my victims… and no matter _how hard_ I try to shut it up, it’s always lurking in the back of my head…” His throat so tight and sore right now. He swallowed, but it didn’t help. “I cannot… _I cannot get rid of it_ …”

His heart was pounding against his ribs, because he knew what he'll hear next: words filled with revulsion and assertions that neither Sam nor Cas want to see him again.

But then Cas broke the silence: “That's completely understandable.”

When Dean raised his head and looked at Cas, he realized the angel's expression didn't change whatsoever despite his confession. It was still full of disappoin--

No, it _wasn't_ disappointment, but _pity_ all along _._

“What's understandable?” Dean pressed. “That I'm a monster?”

“Dean” Cas said. Under his usual, emotionless tone there was a layer of sadness. “Hell is designated specifically to break human souls and mold them into new demons. The fact that it left such lasting impression on you doesn’t make you a monster. Quite the opposite, in fact: it makes you _human_.”

 “B-but… Sam was also tortured in Hell, by _Lucifer himself_ , and he doesn’t have those… _cravings_ …” Dean turned to his brother who watched him with thoughtful expression. “Do you?”

Sam sighted. “No, I don’t” he admitted in heavy tone. “However, those are two different situations. Lucifer was just taking his frustration on me, he didn’t try to turn me into a demon.” A pale smile appeared on his mouth. “He had no idea either of us would get out of the Cage.”

This whole conversation was nothing like Dean feared. Sam and Cas remained calm, brought several logical points to counter his arguments and most importantly… they showed him pity instead of disgust. He kept moving his eyes between them, searching for minor twitches on their faces that would reveal hidden revulsion, but found none. What they said was apparently what they _genuinely_ thought of him.

It didn’t seem right for them to be so unaffected by this confession and yet… Dean felt like a great weight was lifted from his chest and he could breathe freely for the first time in years.

“Well…” Sam cleared his throat. “I can’t really blame you for not wanting to talk about this. It’s…” He paused for a moment to search for the right word. “It’s a pretty disturbing thing to admit to.  But, Dean, I cannot continue living like this.”

A new rush of panic appeared in Dean’s heart, more crushing than before due to short relieve he was allowed a mere moment ago. This is it. This is the point when Sam finally tells him he’s done putting up with his bullshit and that he’s abandoning him for good. No more chances.

“When I left Stanford and rejoined you on the road, we were so close, but then everything started to break down. We grew further and further apart because of the constant lies, and manipulations.” Sam stepped closer to Dean who struggled to keep his eyes on him. He won’t look away. This whole mess was his fault and he’ll take the full responsibility for it. “No more lies” Sam continued in stern voice. “No more manipulations. Let’s brothers again, okay?”

There was a sudden wave of various emotions that washed away the panic: surprise, happiness and affection. Dean didn’t know how to quickly proceed them all at once – or separately, as he was never particularly good at it – so he did what he always does in such situations.

“Are writing a chick flick or something, Sam?” he sneered. “What kind of cheesy line was that?”

Sam humored him with a brief smile, but then declared: “I’m serious, Dean. We allowed Hell, Heaven and our own differences to rip us apart for long enough. Now let’s start fixing our relationship.”

“Does it require talking about feelings and shit?”

“ _Lots_ of taking.”

“Dammit, Sam!”

It was a pure joy to hear his brother chuckle again and Dean joined him gleefully. Their relationship might be screwed up and impossible to repair completely – they picked up too much baggage for that over the years – but he wanted the same thing as Sam: the pure trust they used to share; the knowledge that no matter how tough things get, they’ll always have each other backs. Them vs. the world. Them and Cas now, that is. He might not be able to fix everything, but he’ll work on the biggest issues, like constant lying. No more of that.

“Guess I have no choice” Dean pretended to groan in annoyance despite relief that was filling him. “Just don’t overdo it, Samantha.”

Sam nodded, but before he could say anything else, his mouth opened up in a wide yawn. He raised his arms over his head and stretched, a soft moan coming from his throat.

“I’m going to crash for the night. Getting smacked against bookshelves can exhaust a guy.” He glanced one more time at his brother. “We’ll talk in the morning, okay?”

“Sure” Dean agreed.

With that Sam turned around and walked out of the library. Soon the sound of his footsteps faded away.

Dean sat comfortably in his chair, listening to the usual noises of the bunker – buzzing lights, the pitiful heating system weakly pumping warm air in, the building setting down – undisturbed by any hallucinations. The conversation he was so afraid of for years ended, but instead of causing him misery, it left him happy with peace pulsating inside his chest. How could he have believed that Sam and Cas cared so little about him that they were going to leave the moment they learn the truth? He focused so much on the feeling of worthlessness instilled in him by Dad and the dark thoughts residing at the back of his head that it clouded his judgment. This obsession was what truly led Dean to accidental creation of Tulpa, a personification of his nightmares and insecurities. Sam was right, things had to chance or the history will repeat.

Buried in thoughts, Dean moved his eyes on Cas who was still standing near the library entrance and stared back at him.

“I received your voice messages” the angel admitted. “I tried contacting you and flying to the bunker the whole time, but Tulpa must have created some sort of barrier that kept me away. The fact that it was able to overpower an angel… It’s astonishing what power of faith can achieve, isn’t it?” He paused briefly, completely forgetting about Dean to ponder the situation like a scientist working on unraveling the secrets of the universe. Eventually he remembered he was in the middle of the conversation and addressed Dean again: “Why were you so desperate to speak with me? Was it about the creature itself?”

“No” Dean denied. “It’s about us.”

“Alright. I’m listening then.”

While staring into those mesmerizing blue eyes, Dean remembered the crashing pain that left him incapable of getting up from bed mere hours ago. He has already grieved Cas’s death at the Leviathan’s hands in the past, but this time it was different, mixed with regret over everything they never had a chance to do as a couple. The idea that life would dangle such happiness right in front of him, long enough for Dean to grow fond of it, and then snatch it away made the pain cut deeper.

Cas waited patiently for him to say something. Well, he promised to stop lying, didn’t he?

“I had doubts if our relationship should continue” Dean revealed.

Hearing this, Cas remained calm, but his voice had a hint of nervousness in it as he asked: “Is there anything I can do to dispel them?”

Dean shook his head.

“No. Because I already made my decision.”

Chair scratched again the floor when he pushed away from the table and stood up. He walked up to Cas and stopped right in front of him, as close as they always got to each other. At such short distance Dean could feel faint vibrations coming from the angel’s grace, which both filled him with content and made him aware whom he was dealing with. Despite the very human flesh covering his being, Cas wasn’t a person, but an ancient, powerful creature capable of causing massive destruction at the snap of a finger… and capable of freeing souls from eternal torment.

Someone like this chose Dean, a bitter, drunk hunter who never sustained a single good relationship, out of billions of people that walked the Earth. Honestly, he’ll never understand what got inside this feathered head.

Before Cas could say a word, Dean held onto the front of his trench coat, leaned forward and finally closed the distance between them.

 

 

Cas huffed in surprise and for a moment stood completely still, unsure what to do, while Dean got lost in the sensation of those chapped lips pressing against his own. Heart was pounding in his chest, but this time out of excitement rather than nerves, spreading pleasant heat through his entire body. After years of pinning he was tasting the man – or the angel, whatever – that he wanted to keep by his side for the rest of his life. The faint vibrations of grace grew stronger, travelling down his throat and arms, all the way to his heart.

Still unwilling to let them separate, Dean started leaving gentle pecks on Cas’s mouth and the five o’clock shadow occasionally scraped his lips. That’s when the angel finally snapped out of the shock and tried to clumsily follow his lead. If Dean wasn’t aware until now that Cas had no sexual experience beforehand, this would be a wakeup call. See, instead of actually kissing him, Cas kept randomly hitting his mouth around Dean’s lips like a chicken picking up seed from the ground. Chuckling at this though, the hunter slowly pulled away.

For a moment he forgot how to speak when he saw pure adoration in Cas’s eyes. He just had the worst make out session of his life and yet he couldn’t be happier, because he was with Cas.

 “Not bad for the first time.” Okay, a _small_ lie won’t hurt anyone. “You’re a great kisser in the making.”

“Does that mean you plan to repeat this in the future?”

“Of course. All couples kiss, so better get used to it.”

“That won’t be a problem.”

Despite how awful was the pain that Dean experienced recently, it helped him to get his priorities straight. He cannot allow memories of Hell to ruin this wonderful thing he shares with Cas. Sure, it’s bizarre and he still didn’t understand why he was the one chosen by this silly angel, but he needed to do his best to make it work.

Things won't change unless he takes a leap and starts working toward improving his life. Otherwise he'll keep getting more bitter, more lonely and angrier at everyone around him.

Just like Dad.

He immediately cut that train of thoughts. _No point in reminiscing those old times_ , he scorned himself internally. What happened, happened and his father was long dead, so there's nothing to do. It's such obsessive thoughts that created Tulpa. He best focuses on present.

“Dean, are you intent on making more intimate activities part of our relationship as well?” Cas asked.

The hunter blinked in surprise, because _what_?

“I am aware that most people indulge in sexual intercourses as a mean of procreation, but also to strengthen their romantic bond. While I myself don't have interest in such things, you always showed high interest in--”

“Whoa!” Dean shouted, pulling his hands away from Cas's chest. Only now he got over his fear of kissing Cas. Why on Earth was the angel bringing _sex_ into the whole mess? “You're getting ahead of yourself! Let's just… Let's take it one day at a time, okay? No need to rush into everything.”

Besides, Cas in full angelic mode was hard like concrete. Kissing was one, but having sex with him would probably feel like rubbing against a statue and he had no desire for that. Of course, Sam had a different opinion on the subject, but screw him. Dean _wasn't_ checking out that one statue of half-naked woman, okay? He was only appreciating its beauty. (And that nice pair of tits.)

Now that euphoria was starting to wear off, Dean realized how tired he was. His eyes were burning up from lack of sleep and limbs felt like they weighted a ton. He wanted to stay and keep talking with Cas, but the exhaustion won.

“I'm going to catch some sleep as well” he decided. “Uh… You're staying?”

“Yes” Cas assured. “I will be here when you wake up.”

“Okay. See you in the morning then.”

“Goodnight, Dean.”

He gave Cas one last smile, before turning around and leaving him in the library.

As Dean strolled down the labyrinth of corridors toward his room, he wasn’t paying attention to the sound of his footsteps echoing around and making it seem like someone was stalking him; the hunter’s sense was quiet, indicating no threat left in the bunker. Instead Dean was thinking about Cas and all the things they'll be able to do together from now on.

That night for the first time in a month Dean slept peacefully.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully you’ve all enjoyed the story. I have more follow-ups in mind and I’m going to post a short, fluffy sequel soon, but afterwards I want to focus on writing some other stories, since I spent so much time on “Who Can Love You Like Me” series by now.
> 
> Here’s some fun facts about things that led to me creating “Gazing Into The Abyss”.
> 
> Originally I had a very different idea for the sequel to “There’s Something About Dean”. Crowley was indeed responsible for everything (as he’s accused in third chapter) and the whole story centered around him kidnapping Dean to force him into a relationship. Ultimately I gave up on it for three reasons:
> 
> 1\. The story didn’t provide much opportunity to focus on Dean and Castiel’s relationship, which was completely counterproductive after I’ve spent entire previous fic setting them together.
> 
> 2\. While writing “There’s Something About Dean” I remembered a fantastic Destiel fanfic series I’ve read in the past: “Writing on the Wall” by two sisters, DasMervin and Mrs. Hyde. In it the authors admitted they’re very interested in staying true to the canon and so they had to come up with an explanation for why Dean, a man identifies as straight throughout entire show, would suddenly decide to hook up with another man. That got me thinking about my own story. See, originally the plan was to simply hook up Dean and Castiel without additional drama – the explanation was simply “If it’s you, it’s okay” – but about halfway through writing the fic I came up with a solid reason that made sense in canon.
> 
> 3\. Shortly before I sat down to start planning the sequel, I’ve read another fic: “The inexhaustible silence of houses” by Askane, a story where Castiel hooks up with Dean, but also falls and loses his voice in the consequence. It’s a classic psychological horror that analyzes Castiel’s character and his relationship with Dean. At this point I already had a canon-compliant reason for why Dean would chose to be with a man and psychological horror seemed to be a perfect way to explore it.
> 
> I highly recommend both fanfics, especially “Writing on the Wall” series as it was my introduction to the show. I never watched it before and all I knew about was the premise of two brothers hunting for monsters. “Writing on the Wall” got me so interested that I actually bought a collection of 10 seasons and, well, here I am writing my own fanfics now. To this day I consider it one of the best fanfics out there.
> 
> Original title for my story was “The Hell Never Left” as in “He might have left Hell, but Hell never left him”, a phrase I wanted to put somewhere along the lines. I wasn’t particularly happy about it, though, so I’ve changed it to reference to Friedrich Nietzsche’s famous line, which perfectly represented both main plotlines (Dean obsessing over his stay in Hell and accidently creating Tulpa).
> 
> All flashback featuring Alastair were meant to be part of their own fic I was planning to write, “Thirty Years in Hell”, which would depict Dean's tortures in Hell and his slow fall. Ultimately I realized that having a story that features only series of tortures was repetitive, so I gave up on it. When I started planning the sequel to “There's Something About Dean” and it was still focusing on Crowley, I decided to implement the scenes I already had in mind for “Thirty Years in Hell” as a parallel to Crowley's storyline. Of course, then I dropped Crowley's involvement altogether, but the scenes with Alastair remained in their mostly intact form as they worked very well with the new story.
> 
> The awesome artwork you see near the end of the story comes from devianart and was created by IrenSupernatural (it's actually signed at the bottom, but due to small size you cannot read the words).
> 
> I’ll also go back and post today some fun facts at the end of “There’s Something About Dean” if you’re interested.
> 
> Thank you all for reading!


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